Passion Fruit
April 9 2010


Imagine
life in the tropics.
Bananas, you could reach up and pluck.
Coconuts, like little bomblets
dropping off,
the odd concussion worth the cost
of silky milk, and sweet white meat,
hard brown husks.
Suck the sweetness
from sugarcane,
hacked from luscious stalks.
Mangos, peppers
sweet or hot,
the seeds
of ripe pomegranate.
Breadfruit, arrowroot
sweet-fleshed yam,
passion fruit in season.

You are a barefoot king
in the Garden of Eden,
without the harsh austerity of winter
to discipline the soul
purify the soil
weed-out the overgrowth.
Until, as so often happens
disease and corruption take over,
casting you out
into Cancer
and Capricorn,
the temperate zones, and ice caps.
Eating potatoes, turnips, cabbage
boiled,
craving fat
to keep you warm.

And in the months of darkness
you imagine living
where food drops down from trees,
free-for-the-picking.
You long for sweltering days
and sultry nights
and sweet ripe breezes.
For a small grass hut
on a sandy beach
somewhere near the equator.
And there, giggling shyly
with an opulent offering of tropical fruit,
the brown-skinned beauty
you’ve been waiting for.