the erotics of fruit sucking

Think of a woman, she says, handing me a piece of fruit that I recognized from local bodegas. It’s what I imagine a woman tastes like.

It feels like an extremely ripe tomato. Smooth, but mishandled. Bruised without the evidence. I immediately smell it and nothing arrives inside my nose. No preview.

Dig into it, she advises.

So, with a napkin beneath my chin– which she hands me– I grind my slightly crooked teeth (bottom and top) into this fruit called persimmons color of butternut squash, the neon version. There is an immediate rush of sweetness and I think of the last woman I tasted.

This doesn’t taste like a woman. I laugh. I want it to. I mean, I love the flavor of woman already, but I just don’t want you to be mislead.

[why must I be so literal at times?]

There is a high level of glucose in persimmons and it’s evidence remains on my tongue. So sweet that it’s almost painful. That reminds me of a woman. The good kind of discomfort kind of pain.

I hand it to her and she digs into it with her smooth, white teeth like morning clouds in the spring: free from any evidence of earth’s stains. I watch her bite, suck, swallow. I think of the last time I was turned on watching someone eat something…….

She tells me to put my finger inside of it. Dig out a piece, she says.

With it resting in my palm, beating out its juices, I dug my finger into it and felt what it feels like when I’m deep inside someone.

Warm. Sticky. Pliable flesh.

I wanted to use my tongue as a shovel to rip apart this fruit. This was the safest sex one could have with nutrients attached! Vitamin C. Calcium. Iron.

We passed this fruit between each other until it no longer existed. On the way home, I purchased one of my own. It sits in my fridge, teasing me toward it. I am waiting for it to ripen. One more day.

the language arts of strawberries

when I inhale, I use my tongue

…
There is a brunette woman with a silver ring in her nose, collecting light and dust. Her lips bounce together biting into a strawberry. I should be listening to a lecture on research, language and the art of composing sentences. Instead, I quietly digest the seeds of her flesh, darkened grains of hereditary smoothness.

Memorize the stain of stewed tomatoes or chili peppers. My stomach grumbles toward her teeth, strong enough to rip open fruit and thoughts, still marinating from the night before. I am studying the linguistics of her throat. She sets all utensils and dishes on fire. Her hands are strong enough to replace porcelain dishware. Her fingers are slender chopsticks sliding food between fingers.

Her shadowed skin is stained.

but it’s just a grapefruit

What are you going to say about my scars? If I rifle through my breasts will you look away from my forearms? It’s kind of sour like first-morning-of-menstrual-cycle. Grow in clusters and see how pink it arrives in the middle. This fruit has a tendency to squirt. Lead a hybrid existence like cowboys who only apologize in greeting cards. If body is forbidden then how to dissect prohibited skin. Whisper pomelo. Ask alarm why it refused to cough or nudge you awake. But I’m just a poet. But it’s just a bite of breakfast. But is it a flirt when only ribs touch. But it’s OK to admit what I did when she does it too. But it used to be an ornament and now it cultivates citrus. Your ancestor was sweet orange. My ancestor threw his fists into bellies. Born in Florida. Born in New Jersey.

Start out red fade to pink what is ruby add some terpene influence odor scoop out the bitter dim the metabolism of fiber extract seeds spit out seeds plant seeds how strong are these seeds.

You can touch them because you have them too. You can eat it because yesterday you starved. Look. Ask how knives can be gluttonous. Serrate the opposite. Lust over boots and bad weather. Don’t forget to chew. If I kiss you tonight it’s only because my hands no longer belong to me and there are no pockets in my wardrobe and your neck is a different color than mine.