My Snak

A round dimpled object.
There are tiny needle point inverted wounds,
Waxed and shiny.
You could squeeze it
Without releasing its juice or pulp.

The color appears bright—
Instant like a sunrise—a shade of warmth,
Daybreak. Morning. Ripe.
Like bruised dawn.

The first piece tastes like
A burst of yellow,
Like noon breaking through branches.
Little tiny sour balls,
Tincture drops of Mother Earth’s candy.

Peeled open, it smells like
Sugar stains on children’s faces.
Sort of like spilled juice
On a wooden table

A.V.L