From the Fishouse

Dear V

Returned ravenous … an avocado had baked all week in the fridge. In the dark, on
the patio, with my nine shrubs looking on, I ate it sweetened with vinegar. I could
smell the fuschia and the soft white flesh of the fruit, remembered the same red purple
of it, the same deep green of it, the white of your shoulders … I ate the avocado
before it went black, before the ulcer came back … nine muses looked on, the stars
against the wall of this narrow inlet of sky watched on in the hallucinating light of
pre-dawn, the fuschia scarlet as any dawn. White avocado thighs, green avocado
eyes, I was a peach … paling as the stars paled with the light, impaled on the serous
spikes of the moon. The avocado is eaten. The stars are under blankets …

L