Slicing Avocados

The Dharma is like an Avocado!
     — Gary Snyder

When you slice a ripe avocado
lengthwise, along its prime meridian,

cleave it in two through its thin, dimpled skin,
open its creamy green flesh to plein air,

one half holds onto the nut-brown seed
and the other half lies bare, exposed

with a gaping depression in the curvature
of absence, the seed-shaped contour of loss.

Standing at the counter, slicing avocados,
looking up, thinking about divorce.

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About Ray Sharp

Father, poet, triathlete, local public health planner
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3 Responses to Slicing Avocados

  1. Lake Writer says:

    Really love the complicated simplicity of this poem.

  2. pixieannie says:

    I love your style. The imagery is awesome. I can totally relate to this.

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