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Soursop

The fellow in line asks me where I’ve come and gone.
Costa Rica, I say, and then onwards and upwards to Boston.

I’m visiting Scottsdale, he offers. Been living here for eight years.
The fellow is wearing a safari hat, water shoes, and spectacles

joined by shoelace. In his plastic bag, I can see some fruit –
some small like mangoes, maybe the large one is a guanabana.

There’s an airline agent standing in front of a large sign
with prohibited travel items. There’s a red X over fruit.

I listen and learn that he makes his home in a rainforest,
two hours north of the capital. He hasn’t seen his daughter

in eight years – she doesn’t know how he built his Palace
of Meditation,  Zen, & Goodness, where he hikes to see

the spider monkeys or that his closest confidante is a toucan.
I think about her in Scottsdale where he’ll be helping

her buy her first house, at the age of forty-five, rail-thin,
single with two young boys who love iguanas and magic.

I picture her wispiness, walking around the terra cotta
lined streets, living life with the listlessness that her father left.

On my flight, I picture him peeling his fruit with a contraband
wooden knife, calming his nerves with tropical juices.

The fruits are so giving in their sweetness, even the sour ones
give sugar. They never ask for money, only ripen with his love.

Posted 09/29/14
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