Avocado
by James Arthur
In a bowl, blind as stones.
In their soft-skinned hides, holding seeds.
Carving an avocado
makes a C-section, and the meat of the fruit
slicks the stone.
I’ve taken to reading poems and poets in alpha order—hence, avocado and Arthur.
The opening of this poem makes me want to dissect some avocados and turn them into guacamole, which is what I thought I’d do as soon as I finished reading “Avocado.” But by the end, I was imagining maple tress and dogs and decided to move on to “Aspirations.”
“Avocado” from Charms Against Lightening by James Arthur, Copper Canyon Press, 2012
