Between the Dove and the Bitter Fruit

Because we believe the dead come back
in unexpected forms, I talk to the dove

that touches down at the end of the fence
and sits there without a word, offering 

nothing but the soft brown of its eyes. Days
later, when I find a bone of shingled ivory

in the middle of the yard, suddenly an image comes
to mind: my mother filing her nails by the window

until each tip was a smooth dome. When I cut through
the rippled flesh of amargoso, lift out seeds encased 

in slick red tissue and slice the halves into thin 
half-moons, I feel her watching. I tell her I remember 

how to leach some of the bitterness out of the body
by steeping its wounds in salt before rinsing it clean.