I crack sorrow open.
Yellow pulp burrows under my thumb nail,
pink peel curls on a heavy plate.
What is all this flesh?
I thought I was eating the fruit.
But joy is red and eager.
It bursts cool on my cheeks,
drips sticky on my palms.
It falls in solid drops
when I handle the reality of the husk.
And when I squeeze the juice
between my tongue and my brain
it’s liquid and sweet
with a kernel of bitter at the center.
I know it now,
the taste of the two.
I’m eating the fruit.
