Avocado
by Gayle Brandeis
(07/05/00)
Sylvia Plath has a poem
where she likens pears
to buddhas, how they ripen
like fat buddhas on the tree.
This was my avocado,
fat little buddha
sitting zazen
in the wire basket
over the sink,
waiting for the moment
of enlightenment,
endarkenment,
its dark skin wrinkled
as an elephant, never forgetting
its own moist flesh,
never forgetting
its slippery, soapy, seed,
waiting for a finger
to press into its belly
so it can yield,
yield, yield
like bread dough,
like sand at the lip
of the sea,
for when a knife parts
its pachydermic skin,
it yields with all its heart,
a buddha letting go
of attachment,
releasing its sage-
leaf fragrance
into the air,
releasing its life
like butter
on my tongue.
©2000 by Gayle Brandeis
Reader
Comments
Gayle Brandeis is an award-winning writer and dancer living in Riverside, CA
with her husband and their two children. Her book FRUITFLESH: Luscious
Lessons for Women Writers, will be published by HarperSanFrancisco in 2001.
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