His smile lights up the market; the raindrops splatter
on the peel covered ground with the same dazzling
joy I feel inside when he stalks between the various
other fat, sometimes skinny women, handing me
a plump banana and a pair of swollen guavas.
I know the fruit is pilfered – but I believe him
when he mouths to me “I own this market.”
The last time I came to eat grapes, and he ditched me
because I almost coughed up my tripe, trying to wipe away
misery by gorging on the sweet fruit.
I quit the market for three years. He told me that in a letter…
He said he counted the moons every night since I stopped coming.
“Dear Passion Fruit,
sometimes the moons look full like your eyes…
Then another night, pulpy like your lips.
Sometimes milky like your orifice.”
I came to the market alone today. I won’t leave until I know
if he means what he wrote.