you hand it over the table
I carry it towards my nose
stroke the creases on its cover
massage it against my own
it’s as though autumn leaves
shook hands with the moon
pledging to hide a city
under this fruit’s rind
but my knife is a country
cutting through the centre
leaving remnants of life
in cups of white houses
explosions slip on my dress
like miniature rubies
only to do all of this again
with a different fruit
I’m happy with these rumaan
I’ll take the whole basket