Ripe

When the fruit is green you hold it to your ear,
listen for the rattle of seeds not yet leathered,
not yet gone to seed—

When the tip of the knife circles the hull,
two boat-shaped halves fall open
to a coral score—

And you sigh just as you did before
that there could be nothing sweeter than this
flesh, how its perfume must be the last cocoon—

 

In response to Via Negativa: Holy water.

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