Ode to an Avocado
Pear, let me sing praises to
the grocer’s shelf where you doze
next your kind in serried rows,
nestled in purple cardboard,
like newborns in a hospital nursery,
waiting to be taken home, adored;
to your skin dark and lovely,
colour of wine bottles, covered
in goosebumps and yellow freckles.
How you fit,
cupped in my palm
as if made for it,
your Russian-doll shape,
both swollen and tapered.
The way your body gives
under my inquisitive fingers.
Your inoffensive smell,
Your umbilical scab
I can pick with my thumbnail,
how my knife glides through you
as through butter, through veal.
How you willingly separate
at the snick of my blade.
How the shades of your flesh
surprise me each time, bleeding
from apple green at the edges
through melon to lime.
The way your flesh turns brown
without dousing in lemon.
The concavity at your core, made
for the bite of vinaigrette.
How you wrinkle and furl against
the scrape of my spoon.
How you taste of nothing, then nuts.
How you slither on my tongue
like a sliver of soap, how I can’t quite
grasp you but you slip down anyway.
How you never make me choke
or splutter but sometimes leave me
speechless. The unforgiving stone
lodged in your heart.