It was as if the fruit was custom made.
The way the flower fell and bud appeared.
The little green skin with tiny leaves.
Both growing till the branch hung low.
Bright and nourishing
was the promise of its weight.

As I plucked it
I knew this fruit was novel.

Its scent carried
fresh diapers and talcum powder
long nights and weaning.
its skin wove a tale for someone
without foresight; love always fleeting,
lost and never found.

There was a tingle in my teeth
as its skin split before my bite.
It did not bleed but something
warm was dripping.

Its taste was newness without metaphor.
The imagedea undefined. Endless
transmission on the tip of my tongue.
It stung of being and never again.

My first and last
wrapped into one.