Carambola

Carambola, star-fruit, I never saw
such angular precision or
delectable sweetness.

Mother stood barefoot by the kitchen sink and peeled the ridges off
their fingers, ripe golden stars stretched ovoid
she likes them especially.

It is a fruit suited to
sea-smells and sand-in-hair, hot winds and
the garden riotous with noisy birds.

in my mind
Carving the ends of stars she stands and
warbles at me and asks if
I want it.