By Melissa Llanes Brownlee
It bursts in my fingers, pink pulp dripping, black seeds spackling the oil-stained concrete beneath my bare feet. I press skin and flesh, seeds scraping, against my palms. I flick my hands open, lick the juice from my arms, my hand, seeds clinging to dark pink strings, dangling. I pull another one off the tree, green and unready. This time it’s firm, hard, and I use both hands, and it resists. I place it under one of my feet and step down, the green skin splitting under my weight and I think of cousin’s head this time, imagine bone and brains, white flesh, white seeds oozing from each jagged crevice, and my face crinkles in jagged response.