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.