My friend

has a habit of

falling in love with fruit;

mostly the tropical ones

with thin skin

that are heavy and soft

and inherently warm he claims

that they fit in his palm

resting between the thumb and pinky

along his life line

like the curve of a woman’s hip or a


naked, scared outside of its chest.


He cradles them like eggs

loving them

giving them back the gentle roundness of

their birth in the humid places of the earth

that also make spines and venoms and

biting things,

and he eats them with a gratitude

that is humbling to see.


Except for this one cherimoya

in which

I think

he recognized too much of himself

so carried around until the downy fur of its ridges

which did feel warm

turned completely brown and

one day

knowing he could never eat it

he found a lonely looking tree

and nested the cherimoya in the crook of two branches

which curved over it

for all the world

like ribs.