the journey to our farm, the winding path
my father with me at his heels
the green fruit itself, carefully cut into quarters
then sprinkled with a dash of salt
my father explaining that salt cuts sourness
the first bite, I tasted the truth of this
the second brought to mind the wash of the Gulf
the third a hint of the acrid clay that lines the bayous
the fourth the slow bitterness of tears
I swallowed such realization and with a grin
held out my hand for more
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