Zainab Ummer Farook
Volume 1 | Issue 7 [November 2021]

Inching through ridge and rind, 

your knife breaches this fortress 

of hardiness, green hide giving way

to pods of gold. What beguiles you 

is the kingdom of flesh, not its ramparts. 

All the meat beneath. All that yellow 

gumminess, the milk and sap and glue of it.

Slathered in oil, your palms wade through 

the tapestry of aril and armour, leaving behind

gold, flesh, the sticky succulence of summer. 

What remains is the rub of pebble on knuckle, 

a small thud of promise. It won’t be long

before it stews in air, yielding its glutinous innards. 

Pulped and curried as only seeds can be.

A thimbleful of heartiness: 

you chiming, muthe, ente chakkakkuru! 

mouth churning starch, fruiting joy.