Dressed up like an armadillo rolled into a ball,
the avocado ripens on the sill.
When fleshy to the touch, it’s fit
for culinary feats: halved, then quartered,
clinging to its spherule core, it can be
sliced, diced, smashed, spread, mixed,
rendering a host of treats from toast
to guacamole, a joy for all who eat.
Persia Americana, family Lauraceae,
around the world its names a verbal feast:
aguacate, butter fruit, avo, palta, alligator
pear. As many names as uses.
Fruit of the Americas, it nurtured
Bolivar, Zapata, Albizu, Rigoberta,
fed the pangs of countless
millions hungry for their rights.
Unassuming, humble, the avocado
is endowed with traits like those
of a cherished partner: stable,
nurturing, versatile, tasty.
How might the world be different if,
back in the day, those lovers shared,
instead of that shiny red globe,
this perfect fruit?
Mariana Mcdonald is a poet, writer, scientist, and activist. Her work has appeared in numerous publications, including poetry in Crab Orchard Review, Lunch Ticket, and The New Verse News. She lives in Atlanta.
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