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I pick it up with its spiky crown,
grip its rough, scaled body;
a blush of yellow at the bottom
and gradient of green to its top.
Some people recommend pulling
a segment of its crown to determine
if it’s ripe or not, but I sniff its bottom.
If it’s ripe, it smells like morning and
sunshine, it smells like a yawn and
a full body stretch, the budding
of jasmine and a sliver of ginger.
If it’s unripe, it smells like nothing.
When I find the right one, I carry it
under the crook of my arm, precious
cargo. At home, I sharpen my big knife
and separate crown and bottom
with a fibrous thump. And there,
the sunburst of yellow flesh, core
tough and thick like a piece of wood.
I sit it up on my cutting board
and shear off its spiny flesh,
scale by scale, side by side,
my hands burning with its juice and pulp.
Seeds and specs of skin exposed,
and it is naked, yellow, a gorgeous
shape, like the glass top of a lantern
illuminating every corner of the kitchen.
I cut and slice, divide its brightness into
cubes, each one a geometry of starlight
or the physical capture of a sunbeam.
I can bite into that flesh and take that light,
digest it into myself, illuminate like a star
in the night, explode into a solar system.
I’ve tasted the stars and the milky way;
I’ve tasted the planets and sunshine
and they tasted sweet.
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