When I Taught Mary to Eat Avocado

                                        She didn't understand. 

You couldn't cut straight through with the big knife 
           because of the pit, or heart, or stone. 

                                        We gave it many names, 

and when it was revealed, bone-shade, 
           heavy-bottomed, she wanted to keep it. 

                                        She washed it, and the skin 

dried and crackled, lost shards. I taught her to salt 
           the pebbled rim, and dig with the tip 

                                        of a spoon, which is like a knife. 

The flesh curl surprises, but it's a taste you'll miss. 
           When she stole the story I told then, 

                                        how the Aztecs locked up virgins 

during the avocado harvest, how this was repeated 
           to others in her own language, 

                                        I knew we were bound to take 

what we could from each other and go. 
           I didn't tell her what the name 

                                        for avocado meant, its connection 

to the male body, which she wanted no part of, 
           which I am now a part of. 

                                        Perhaps that is the end 

of the story, his flesh in my mouth. Perhaps 
           the women were not locked up, 

                                        but went, willing.