The dust blew in, covered our sheets. We barely touched. Is dust a season? Or the absence of rain? We touched infrequently, but you brought me fruit, cradled in the hem of your t-shirt. * The apple clings to the nut’s hard shell, the flesh stringy and astringent. Djidja taught us how to crack them, to extract the meat without touching the poisonous resin that surrounds it. * Anacardium occidentale: Far Eastern Heart. Is it the drupe–its muscled blush--or the seed’s hidden aortal curve? * In Portuguese its name might mean tangled skein. But it wasn’t Portuguese we spoke. What we learned was something else: rough-skinned and elliptical, at once newer and more primitive. * Above the branch, the moth’s white-paned wings are marked with eyes. No. Don’t call them eyes. * We picked more than we could eat. The fruit, unsuitable for transport, rotted on the ground. We ate until our bellies ached. * And now the bell-shaped emptiness ringing on my tongue. Its tannic sting. We ate until the trees were bare, until the fruit was gone.
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