yamagata avocado

I come from where they come from, sun-greased
easily bruised: I am imported goods. The avocado
is my miscarried sister, buried in the red dirt there.

Grown to be an upright tree, my other siblings
and I climbed the limbs; our mother mourned
by eating the fruits it bore, spouting every expelled
pit into another. And now, in this foreign land

the avocado is my weekend lover: when I go,
¡Qué rico! I sigh, never satisfied.
In this barren land, the avocado is my unborn
daughter, scratched beneath the red dirt there
never to take root,
never to satisfy.

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