First Fruit

First Fruit: An Offering

The look on his face
Is what you came for:

Like most things,
You do not know
Until the moment of unfolding.

Revelation of nectar,
Delight of crisp bite.
The vision of this sweetness.
He palms the fruit to his mouth.

You assure him yes,
It is his, you want him to have it,
Want to see this,
Beg him to take a bite
Right now,

Explain that it is
An Asian Pear.
A fruit so laced with juice
Through its taut and delicate flesh,
So firm and fragile,
That it is immanently, bruisably delicious.

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He points
At the sand-colored
Stemmed globe,
What’s that?
After the reading,
As you are digging
Through your purse for a pen,

You pull out what
You’d carried just in case,
Not unlike your ancestors
Have for generations,
Remnants of exile
Haunting the cacophony
Of your DNA, always,
Place it on the wobbly café table.

On the open mic,
He reads a poem
About the shock of
Orange County
After Sierra Leone,
Of metal exoskeletons
Crossing over each other
In every direction.

After your feature,
He thanks you,
Says that he shares your selfish desire
For others’ happiness,
That this resonance
Is what he came for, and
You are grateful for this
Good fortune,
This opportunity
To make an offering.


Photo Credit: “Asian Pear Tree” by Rachelle S.