by SHAMIT BAGCHI
The outer peal,
The crimson ribbed texture,
I pluck it with my underdeveloped nails.
The innards - semen-colored.
Sweet, nectar filled,
Juices flowing around the lips, dripping,
A stain it leaves on my shirt;
And on my jaws and cheeks.
My tongue chokes,
In the sweetness of the fleshy core.
Its hollow, vivid to the taste.
I let it linger - on the tongue
Eyes closed I taste it with a vengeance.
Then I bite - soft, succulent
Squirting, it overflows in the recesses
Of the confinement of my mouth.
Melting, vanishing in a moment,
Leaves a trail of viscous nectar as it
Goes down my throat; getting steadily dilute.
With my hand I extricate the seed and
Throw it up yonder, above the betel-nut trees
As I see it fly I turn around and
Then I pounce on another one from the bunch;
My father had bought from the market.
Then I was a child, hot summers
At my grandpa’s place – I’ll remember always:
The burning sun on the roof
And litchis for company.