Egg-yolks blooming in serenity

baba’s palms turn upwards

black dirt falling on the sun.

The fruit of baba’s hands

covered in spines

twisted but not the wicked way

that punctures skin.

Serpentine limbs extend in search of

hands to hold

fingers to suffocate.

Pungent soil moistens fingertips

incandescent dew settles atop

the hills of my shoulders

rise and fall

cradled against the synapses

between nerve-endings

and an instant.

What baba pours

grows backwards

towards itself.

Which side do I sink my teeth into?

The bitterness is unapologetic.

Watch baba chew

rhythmically

I swallow.

Crisp

ripe fruit

I peel back with my teeth

burst against the roof of my mouth.

With the seeds

I grow a house

it pours me

upside down.

Eggshell walls and roof of foliage

I step inside.