Chrysophyllum cainito
Darkly violet, warm and musky,
globes we plucked from the tree
—quick plunder that bulged
from the hems of our t-shirts,
their sap already starting
to run and thicken. Each summer
we scaled the tree— Caimito—
for the pucker and milk of flesh,
for the promised body buried
as a star in the apple’s belly.