Meeting you is evermore like
biting into a custard apple
I only ever buy them once
a year, after the monsoons
On days which haven’t quite
decided to be summer or
winter yet, so I never know
if I should chill the fruit or
leave it out. I invariably put
it in the fridge because I know
I will want it when my body is
flushed hot with desire
I will hold it in my hands
pondering for a few minutes
over the impossibility of you
The quilted body a green
and a black, hard only in how
those colours remind me
of war and dirt. Though
when I press gently, the fruit
yields its soft insides to me
It disintegrates into a few
unequal pieces. I take one
to my mouth, hold in
with my teeth, close my
lips around, and then I am
the soldier’s heartbeat.
I want to swallow
the cold flesh whole and
let your pulp meet mine-
Always my tongue finds
these seeds playing seek,
one then another,
then more.
Reminding me how much
I want you and how little
of you I can have.
Cover art by Ava Sol on Unsplash.
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