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Papaya.

 Mutant mango or ersatz squash, yellow skin pocked with green
freckles so odd, I ask what it is on the counter in Steve's
kitchen. He recites a litany of benefits: digestive, C-vitamin,
curative, then lays it on a cutting board, slices it open and spreads
apart the halves, curved like the body of a woman, orange belly full of
black seeds mounded like a lair of bees. He cuts a piece of rind with a
spoon and lifts it to my mouth. A rumba swings on my tongue, not the
sweetness of a Pink Lady apple nor the ordinary striptease of a
Chiquita, this rum-swilling jezebel splayed on the kitchen counter is
hiding nothing, a holy, almost-human fruit that must be opened and
tasted to be understood. 
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Author:Ehrlicher, Lynn
Publication:Atlanta Review
Article Type:Poem
Date:Sep 22, 2012
Words:157
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