I like the way they fit the palm –
their plump Buddha weight,
the sly squeeze for ripeness,
the clean slit of the knife,
the soft suck
as you twist the halves apart,
the thick skin peeling easily.
Naked, they’re slippery as soap.

I serve them for myself
sliced and fanned
on white bone china
glistening with olive oil,
or I fill the smooth hollow
with sharp vinaigrette
scooping out
the pale, buttery flesh.

Every diet you’ve ever read
strictly forbids them.

from Beyond Calling Distance (Bloodaxe Books, 2001), © Esther Morgan 2001, used by permission of the author and the publisher.

Esther Morgan in the Poetry Store

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