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by Sarah Goughnor

  • The fruit bleeds out juice
  • That trickles down my fingers.
  • A sweet cloying scent rises up
  • Out of its ripe, golden flesh
  • As I press down with the sharp,
  • Glinting edge of my kitchen knife.
  • The shy interior blossoms
  • Exposing the tender pulp
  • Beneath its sunset-hued skin
  • As though I’ve sliced open the sky.
  • I caress the curve of the fruit
  • And carve my blade into its pit.
  • I lift my fingertips to let my tongue
  • Catch a slow droplet of tangy nectar
  • Sliding across my palm.

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