I was much like you then, wanting
a life beyond streets roofed in old foil,
beyond splints that bowed under the pear-
shaped weight of homely green fruit. I knew
how to peel them close to the flesh, run
my hands under water to rinse off their sap.
My heart sighed as I worked to fold them
in sheets of pastry that did not cloy
despite their bruising in sugar; or carve
them into islands of jade suspended
in steam. For all dreams are frugal
until they cleave through topsoil,
until their tight-coiled spirals
stretch to the last breaking point.