i distrust the nectarine

Article by Eliza Broan Art by Jennifer Martinez

i’d learned to hold you carefully. 

there are so many reasons

to expect hidden rot or an

unforgiving tightness in your skin. 

even so, i dared to dislodge you 

from the bananas and avocados. 

your ambered lust jumped at me 

from a field of hard green, 

a golden lush wafted to my greedy nose; 

a readiness too complete to fathom. 

i took the greatest care 

rinsing this purity in cold water. 

i was terrified to sink my teeth, 

panicked that your soft skin might suggest

a sour mush of excess time, 

betrayed as a ripe facade. 

in all fairness,

how could i have known? 

but a punctured breach of fear 

surrendered a cascading nectared cataclysm. 

me, in turn, washed by you.

this generosity only deepened my distrust; 

i thought your bountiful integrity would waiver. 

i scrutinized your skin, 

your flesh 

for marks — bruises, stains, hidden mealiness — all 

to avoid the bite that would 

ruin the perfect nectarine; ruin me.

it didn’t come.

every bite was better than before. 

running down the same palm that esteemed it,

the un-reservedness of your fruit 

poured over me.

each pore of my being 

converged with your sweetness.

i gave you my cautious adoration, knowing that 

a covert contusion could come as an assault. 

finally, i conceded to a trust 

i had never known, accepting that soon, 

the pit would be all i had left. 

cored experience in hand, dripping, 

the moment nearly extinct. 

with gluey fingers, 

i sat silently, astonished in your 

intoxicating evanescence,

only left wishing i trusted your perfection 

from the first bite.