Oh, if I wanted
one perfect roundness to fit
my hand as sweetly as an egg,
it’s you, avocado.

Lob your dark green skin north
for salsa and fresh-squeezed limes.
Soothe my tongue ravaged
by sharp-toothed words,
conform to my teeth,
invite my tongue to roll in bland
oil of green.

Teach me timing.
You are as unforgiving about being ignored
in the juniper bowl as the banana.
You rot inside out, mellow green to black
like jealousy.

The places that know you best
– La Fonda in Sante Fe –
guarantee perfection, guacamole
brought to the table every night,
mashed with garlic, jalapenos,
tomato, onion, sea salt, and lime.

Open up. I love your womb,
pregnant curves shielding
your nut-hard seed that yields
last to the worm’s work.

Like women,
you’ve been squeezed
in markets from Maine
to Mazatlan.
There is no other way
to know how ripe you are.