The farmer’s market had rambutans this week—
have you seen one? Think a lychee, with a harder
shell. The outside is a crowd of tiny red hooks, but
they never catch on your fingers; the armor yields
with a little force, and the inside is nothing but juice.
I tried to take a video when I got home in case you wanted to see it, that moment
where sweetness emerges like a supermoon
through trees. It looked terrible. The rambutan
was so dull on my cutting board, nothing left of
the sugary splendor when I take out my knife
and open it right behind the vendor’s stall.
But it’s a miracle, in the labyrinth of routers,
that any signal resembling you or me comes
through. You explain yourself even worse. I’ve seen
your blurry photos of the charcoal sky and Lefty O’Doul’s non-alcoholic beer, but
I’ll never get to ask if the cold hurts your hands.
Call me if you get bored anyway. Wherever I go,
the spirit of a place where the trees bloom
year-round and the people are happy to entertain soaks through my being like fructose. And I love to hear your voice,
even as below the camera’s eye
you move to unzip your pants.