Pitahaya

Teach me a fruit of  your

country I asked and so you dipped

into a shop and in your hand

held me a thick yellow pinecone

no knife between us

you put it to your teeth

sideways like a bird and bit

and peeled away the fleshy

scales or were they petals

crisp white at the core

peppered with black seeds

sweet and light like a cold cloud

like some exotic sherbet carried

hand over hand from a mountaintop

by a relay of runners straightway

to the Inca’s high table

we sat on metal chairs

still pebbled with rain the seat

of my pants damp we passed it

back and forth no matter how

carefully we could not help

spilling the juice making

our cheeks sticky our fingers

getting sticky our fingers no

not even once touching