Soursop

by Arethabelle Smith

seeds of soursop sleep 

in their drops of sweetness, 

I am intoxicated;

asphyxiated, 

satiated.

 

prickly flesh 

brings thick

creams of red

slapped sealed in search of 

black grains that grew 

of poison.

 

evergreen weeds

choke from within 

leaving 

a heart 

to breathe

 on hold.

 

humid heat 

on cool ground still rose

the sop;

to stained sweet teeth, 

 

in swallowing

 inhales no air

   for 

     I 

      will 

       not 

     speak.

 

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