I Make Fruit Salads

I Make Fruit Salads

And lunch went something like this:

chaos sandwiched in-between circular discs of pineapple

and my peas were not cooperating

as the pulpy pit of the mango self-divided

decimating the cool-skinned plum

before bruising the insides of my mouth cavity.

But the juice, viscous can only capture

half of the pleasure if you don’t take a moment to imagine

the sensory delights I derived, fingers

curving fat parentheses from the white-

haired pedazos of my thick-skinned clementine.

Do I begin to tell you of my love

of cucumbers? The curling sound they made

between my incisors, the hot lightning crack

of condensed water grasping momentarily

outwards, before they departed throat-wards—

sacrificial chariots to the cords of my stomach.

Most of all, I eyed the pear nestled

amongst your long fingers, a stranger against

your slight hand, an ellipsis slowly

to your quiet motioning—and I wondered,

do you know that my eyes are hungry on you,

for that luscious piece of fruit?

Such an idea.