Quenepas

By: Marielena Gomez

Sitting on my kitchen floor

fingertips covered

in sticky sweet

I’m transcended

to a memory

that took me off my feet

I had been strolling along

the grocery aisle

streaming sweat

down my spine

when I came across

a strange fruit

that I used to call

“All mine!”  

It’s green and slightly

fuzzy, with skin

that comes off fast.

It’s leathery and mild

you suck it, to make it

last.

As a child

in an old Catholic school,

these trees lined the block.

There, the students

would pick and eat the fruit

gathered round in flocks.

It was always a moment in Spring

I’d look forward to share

the sweet smell of quenepas

as it lingers in the air.  

What a glorious nostalgia

some thirty years after

remembering the subtlety

of Spanish limes and laughter.