It’s understandable:
Nobody just knows how
to eat one. Nobody expects
fruit from the desert, especially
not under grey winter skies.
Nobody expects it to
look like that—an almost purple bruise
that looks lost in aisles of green apples
and pears and the Cavendish banana.
Nobody expects someone
like you to want something
so out of reach.
It’s full of seeds,
so you can’t bite down, you say
to the skeptical cashier when
you pluck it from your cart
and roll it onto the sticky belt.
He said the same thing, the first time,
when everything was still new.
He sliced one into two equal portions
with a white-handled paring knife
and folded one half into his gums,
an expression dangerously close
to a smile, before handing over the rest.
There are so many things
you’d love to chew on,
so many things you’d love
to learn how to devour whole.
