Pomelo; plump pulp bunched at branches’ bottom,
Pulling hard on thick limbs
Against the hulked leg six metres to the sky.
The swell of moist beads inside a wax case;
the breed of unpredictable bulbs.
White flowers mislead the hungry warrior,
Deceitful innocent flags to food
Seduce the weary wanderer
With a waxen green umbrella of shade
A cool break in the sweet-scented shadow of the wave-white belled petals.
What strength sucked from the soil
To rise twenty inches,
Each sun-setting season
Expand the shaded sanctuary
And bear the bulbous load of pummelo.
Pummelo; two in thirty-two –
A bitterly sad chance of success,
Or sweet survival.
A bite of one, of two, of thirty-two;
A luck eight times more exotic
Than the four-leafed clover.
The other thirty?
Thirty more orange’s Adams,
Pommelos; we cannot predict
Bitter, sweet, taste roulette.
Eight times more exotic
For eight years to fruit,
To taste underneath green-yellow rind.
Discard, or salted pamplemousse?
Pamplemousse; so purposeless in reproduction
Candied rind, raw flesh,
Dipped in Brazil’s dark cocoa.
Or forgone, Eve’s apple, the elixir
Of forbidden Fruit’s shackles.
Here, true magical shaman seeds,
Plucked from branches
Sliced in segments
Inebriate the senses
The uncertainty of thirty-two
Laced into liqueur.
Adam to the orange,