by Abner Dormiendo
The news this morning: an encounter between
me and a piece of mangosteen
ensued. Delicate head, crown of leaves
I twirled around my palms, looking for
weakness, fear. In a second, hands geared,
my wrists mimic a vise: the fruit
in all its tenderness, crushed by hunger
for the prize sought inside. The price,
fingers stained crimson by a vicious crime.
Only to find the flesh within: rotten, spoiled.
And how violence is only answered by violence;
how death’s the reward for this self-proclaimed
valiance; how in a war man waged against
a humble fruit, only the tender prevail.