(I)
Guava is not a fruitbut a waxy green orb I pickfrom Patel Brothers after tres leches daysand random street slices
I add rock salt and it becomes a sharp trip backto India of sudden pelting rainsWhen hair stuck to our scalpswe eagerly ate fruit and salty lips
Guiding ten-years-old fingersand paper boatsto soggy safety of respective mouths
A memory made pulpy by distanceits seeds wedged inside my throatThe shiny skin when knifednow yields tartness, and very little juice
(II)
Guava is not a fruitbut an Indian afternoon lingering redin a summer adolescence
The seeds in the green flesh as many to countas Laali’s shrieks of annoyancefor us children ravaging her treeand her lover’s sleepHer sighs came floating down the windowLong drawn, ripe and edible
***
Image: In Full Sunlight (En plein soleil), James Tissot (French, Nantes 1836–1902 Chenecey-Buillon)