Rambutan
Chi Tran
I like to eat rambutan, I tell you,
my voice full of chime and melody.
Buy it for me. You return with a whole
ten pound box of blood red jewels, waiting
to be eaten. The spiky outside
betrays the soft, chewy meat inside.
No one knows this secret but me.
With eyes round as saucers, you hand
me the box. You expect something
in return, but I have nothing
to give. All I know how to do is take.
That deep hunger in the pit of my stomach—
or is it my heart—tells me to grab all I can.
I don’t want to be empty. You try to feed me
the rambutan, but it is not enough. It is never
enough.
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