In August, that small sun, with its flares of

cerise, garnet, and amaranth, draws me

to its compelling presence. Even across

 

the room I am pulled into that orbit,

the solitary globe on the table mesmerizing

with the fragrance of tropics, carried on

 

invisible particles of air. I go

equatorial: take off shirt; feel beads

of perspiration pock forehead. Shoes are

 

kicked off, socks gone; the resilience of rich, dark

soil beneath. I approach as you would a lover,

reverential and ardent. The fruit is

 

surprisingly heavy: It is world complete.

A fine fuzz tickles. Where the stem was broken

off, the skin pulls in and is gathered: The absent

 

tree appears. You don’t eat; but are initiated.

Juice spills off lips to chin to chest. Somewhere,

a perfect wave is breaking. Somewhere, love

 

is drenching two to skin. If I could grow

it within I would. Imagine how the skin

would glow, how sweet the breath, how juicy the life.