seated on a rope spool
around the small family table
i was offered something special.
green and oval
like an avocado, but, with scales.
i stared in wonder. papa with great panache,
and a paring knife, demonstrated ever so precisely
the flaying and vivisection
of this most noble fruit.
pink, like watermelon,
tangy sweetness, like a strawberry,
but not …
perfume for the tongue, atomized
ambrosia. undefinable; no reference point.
big back eyes that were seeds, staring back innocently.
cooling and green, like nectar from a melon
forming a long rivulet that dripped off my chin.
that was before computers.
today I looked up cherimoya on wikipedia:
“although the cherimoya cannot stand snow,
it does like to see it in the distance.”
(See NaPoWriMo.net to participate!)