grew larger next to the brick wall
by our house in Havana,
this loose-leafed tree
that gave neither shade
nor flower, but once a year
the guanabana grew gnarled
fruit the size of human hearts,
dangled in the sun like some
prehistoric porcupine curled
in on itself. Gray-green,
with a mock-sweet aroma.

My parents loved them,
this fruit of their paradise,
how when they pulled it
apart in their hands, its pulpy
milky teeth opened. They
filled their mouths with it,
its ripeness, its history of tart.

A strange bitter-sweet
hard to explain, even now,
when I lookup the word
only find out that 'guanabana'
in English is Soursop,
a misnomer for a fruit, a tree
that so links this time, this life
with another, ripening so
in the distance…