As a child, I loved bananas, what child does not
adore the silly peel as it reveals
the firm but biteable equally funny finger beneath.
But then my fancy turned to berries on the bushes
where we scratched our faces as we foraged;
particular pleasure was gotten from the ones
with all the bumps, impossible to spell
but easy to tell they were raspberries,
not those smooth round bursts of blue that mother mixed with cream.
More grown up, I learned the romance of a peach,
like his tongue in my mouth as we kissed—
surely no fruit as tender as this.
Life turns, the vine ripens to melons,
thicker skins, succulence deeper inside.
I’d like to die as a coconut,
with shell to protect, yet still delectable
juicy pulp and milk within
for lovers and friends
and all who cared to know me to the end.