Voluptuous and sumptuous,
it fills the palm with gravitas,
golden heart, cool to the clasp,
enveloped in its peau de soie,
too heavy with sweet flesh to beat,
scented with the essences
that lure the love-lorn to the islands,
conjure the Pacific rim:
painted into hands of wahines,
Gauguin's Eros-offering.
This was the fruit that grew
abundantly about my childhood home,
plump cheeks that blushed
among dense foliage on ripening,
coveted by squads of flying foxes,
fleets of lorikeets; and plummeted,
sought by our eager hands
then torn apart, each oozing,
luscious, perfumed heart
too tempting for our avarice:
midsummer's sacrificial feast
and bacchanal…