There Is No Title

O sacred orb of sunlit flesh,
you burst with joy, not shameful mesh—
not fibrous lies in pale disguise,
but nectar kissed by Andean skies.

You taught my tongue what fruit could be:
a velvet hymn, a symphony,
a taste so bold, it made me weep—
then curse Monsanto in my sleep.

You ruined me—in the best of ways.
Now supermarket aisles feel like malaise.
What once was snack is now a fraud on trial,
each cantaloupe a painful sin, reviled 

But I forgive you, Texas rind—
you simply weren’t born in a land so kind.
Your spirit’s weak, your soul half-formed,
your sweetness vague, your essence warmed by diesel trucks, instead of sun. 

And by an impatient capitalist’s poison
A plastic smile on Mother Nature’s face.

A lack reverence in a holy space, 

But you, Peru, you understood the art
of slicing open one’s whole heart
with just a fruit, and saying this:
“Love is real. And it tastes like a melon’s kiss”