Avocado,
Alligator pear,
Avocado pear.
Avocados—birthed in
Mesoamerica, they come
from both outcrossing
and self-joy.
Avocados are relics from
an evolutionary antique
mall, no natural dispersers
left to spread their seeds.
Avocados should never
be chosen with a stem
attached—the best retain
an open wound.
Avocados were the first
veggiefruit I hated with
an intensity that only
a kid can have for food.
Avocados’ texture was
the problem—sad green eggs
that refused to slide by
my tongue or taste buds.
I still hate eggs.
Avocado testing began at
twelve; perhaps puberty’s
new morph flavored them
like new ice cream.
Avocados now confound
me with their ripening, like
the immaculate conception
it is faith, not science.
Avocados rest in our ash
fruit bowl, plotting their two
hour and forty seven minute
window of perfect ripeness.
Avocados—like life itself,
a moment’s distraction may
flip the world upside down.
Gary Grossman
Gary Grossman’s writing appears in 54 literary reviews. Gary’s poetry books Lyrical Years (2023, Kelsay), What I Meant to Say Was…(2023, Impspired Press), and graphic memoir My Life in Fish—One Scientist’s Journey…(2023, Impspired) all may be purchased from Amazon. He enjoys fishing, running, gardening, and playing the ukulele.