Cold like a bullet, it rolls between my tongue and the roof of my mouth, that tiny jagged crown where the stem once was pressing a rough circle into my palate. It is so ripely firm it will not burst until I break it with my teeth. Then, oh! the tang and natural sugars, that succulent gritty pulp, the skin spreading flat to skin my mouth, that small explosion of rainwater, the taste of shadows.
Published by Samuel Snoek-Brown
I write fiction and teach college writing and literature. I'm the author of the story collection There Is No Other Way to Worship Them, the novel Hagridden, and the flash fiction chapbooks Box Cutters and Where There Is Ruin. View more posts