You are tired of what cloys,
       what heavies your tongue and makes

as if to coat your body in whipped
       oil and vinegar. You are drained

and puckered as a sheet left too many
       years in salt water, then parched 

as a plant struggling to keep its rousable 
       nature. You close your eyes and imagine 

fruit as color in tiny cubes pared 
       from cathedral windows, the light in them 

washed sweet with milk. You return to the time 
       you don't know peach or apple or navel orange 

yet: only the gold of mangoes, the coral 
       sweetness of papaya ripening on a tree 

in the backyard, resembling Artemis of Ephesia— 
       garland of breasts full to bursting  

atop the pillar of her body, open hands 
       gesturing and calling you to eat.  

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