in books they are called sapodilla
and i imagine them as ladies in ball gowns
feet cased in elegant shoes and silk stockings

but in your mouth they are sof-fey-ya-da
as frank and bald as brown potatoes that give
off a smell of ripened age, pungent and full

this morning when you peeled me a bowl
of the grainy fruit; a pile of triumphant ovaries
you ate the bland fruit with your fingers

and i did not expect that movement in my stomach
as you carved out its shining black seeds to offer to me
that sense that somehow i must be your daughter.

11/22/2012

Posted on 11/22/2012
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