I carried two
in the cup of my right hand
like a set of testicles,
soft and heavy for their size,
warm from pavement
relieved of the afternoon sun.
I washed them and ate them,
standing at the sink,
the pulp sweet but not domestic,
overtones of durian or dragonfruit,
flat seeds slipping across my tongue.
Poor child, poor child,
you still don’t know how
to go home empty-handed.
Header photograph © Liz Baronofsky.
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