Eating an Avocado by Amy Wright

Droplets of water reflect light on dark bumpy skin.

The knife pierces it easily,

sliding around the fruit from stem to navel

with just a whisper of resistance. 

A twist and the two halves turn,

rotating on the axis of the pit.

Another twist and the halves separate.

The interior is perfectly smooth, each half a luscious oval.

One hollow, one filled.

A ring of verdant green follows the contours of the skin,

surrounding a thick layer of pale spring, almost-yellow green. 

A blow to the pit with the knife’s blade

embeds it deep in the woody orb.

The knife pivots, the pit comes free,

impaled on the sharp edge.

The knife plunges once more and pierces the flesh,

sliding smoothly into the slippery tissue, 

slicing strips into the meat of the fruit.

A spoon glints and flashes coldly

as it insinuates along the skin from the inside, 

slipping along the fragile husk.

It cradles the silky segments with reverence

and lays them to rest

onto a sepulcher of perfectly toasted sourdough.