Saturday, May 7, 2011


my sandstone papa
eats custard apple.

The patience fruit

he sings, picking seed after seed
juice moistening chipped thumbs.

first you must crack shell
palms fold around caloused layer
you know I used to eat sitapalum everyday
so I waited. At night I sat in trees till down.
eyes hug horizon for memory.

not like that! you will destroy it.
patience. patience.
my prying fingers drop apple.

second notice tender skin
hunger seethes in me. I crave
voluptious translucent flesh

but alas no sitapalum in Amreeka

Thunderstorm receeds.
I imagine dark shouldered foreigner
peering into neighbor's gardens, state parks,
uncharted forests for broad tree and clay fruit
pocket growing heavy, dreaming of buying
one way ticket to India.
Romance prevails. Reality intrudes.
Papa waits nonetheless.

I love this land
he breathes, chewing seed
lids heavy, jaws unclench
my papa crumbles to the Earth.

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