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.

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