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Gaylord Brewer | Apologia to a Papaya for the Ode I PromisedAs I cradled you safely from market,
proud of your length and weight,
your belly fatter than the circle of hands,
as I marveled at your sad, exotic skin
of mottled yellow, I knew without knowing
that an ode was owed. But as one day passed,
then another, this adoption enlarged
to a burden I somehow couldn’t equal.
I would open the hamper to feel you—
cold now—to turn you, to stare down dumbly.
Then this morning, after last night’s storm,
I shuffled groggy and dispirited to the kitchen.
You loomed there—mammoth, monolithic,
undaunted where I had displayed you
to dinner guests, who stared from behind
their drinks and would not touch you,
wouldn’t take you away as midnight prize.
Shakier than a man my age should be,
I cleared plates, rinsed my longest blade,
balanced you gently on your rump.
Strips of skin thudded like wet bark to the table.
Your heavy flesh, darker than any carrot,
glistened nearly red. I sculpted an edible form,
reduced it to squares, began to stack them.
Then, your ripe secret opened, a caviar of seed.
I stacked more carcass; the pile grew.
Suddenly I understood—oppression continuing
in same degree, merely shape redefined.
On impulse, I skewed a square and ate.
I chewed, swallowed. I lifted a second slab,
slippery between fingers, and ate again.
Here’s the last surprise—I didn’t like the taste.
So I stood there, trying to think it through.
Then, hands working on their own, into the sack
you went, your guts and seed, story
and violation, and my failure, all into the bin.
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