She instructs me in the language of fruit.
Rambutan -soft-spined, red-laced –
a grape in disguise, she says.
But a grape is already a grape, isn’t it?

She cleaves the abiu, yellow skin, white flesh,
a fruit with a deadline. Eat it now, she warns.
My gut, still decoding sapodilla, misses the memo.

The last woman gifted apples in a bowl.
With one grip, I knew its whole story.
But the longan – sweet, translucent – remains a stranger.

I’ve come to know people by their trees.
Florida citrus. Atlanta peach. Nothing else to harvest.

This one – she thinks I’ll never meet another
who knows casimiroa, who spoons rollinia
like custard from the sky.

Love arrives in segments, in skins, in pulp.
With any luck, she’ll let me know when it ripens.