When it comes to custard apple

Cream coloured- its skin and seeds are inedible,
cut in half and scoop out the flesh,
experience the taste on your lips as it slides down
the throat— be consoled,
having a custard apple is like learning how to navigate through life,
its various twists and turns,
I think back on to his voice, the way it sounds across satin sheets
in dark hours of the night.
Succulent and sweet, its flavour brings to mind
the laughter of children on the merry-go-round; drops of rain
after a long drought,
adrenaline rush that follows after the first kiss,
one taste
is simply never enough,
it’s no wonder this heart shaped fruit doesn’t ask for much.
Leave them too long
and they can become fermented,
approach early and you will find
they are hard as the darkness of your thoughts,

remember to wait until they are ripe.
I still find pieces of him in every syllable, cropping in late winter
and spring
onto my blushing page—too far, too full,
too fast, the way my being falls for his,
could it be that we are naturally heavy bearers, are means
of propagation like the tree itself?
And now the clouds scatter sensuously, making my pen ache to map
his terrain,
his face in slow and deliberate detail;
darkly passionate,
my custard apple memory.

 

 

 

Photo credits: Agostinho José da Mota – Frutas do Conde – fair use.

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Posted for Poetics: ‘How to cut a Pomegranate’ @dVerse Poets Pub