the fruit was, strictly speaking
not necessary. my fridge was already
full of languishing apples
relics from an overzealous
bid at wellness
guilt-struck by my excess
even food poisoning seemed
a poor excuse for such
miscalculation
fully recovered
i ventured to whole foods
determined to make up
for my week of congee
armed with a list
of planned desires
i marched past the chips
but faltered by the cantaloupes
even through my mask
i could smell their musky fragrance
beckoning like summer
sunlight translated
into sweetness
basket straining
i found myself
cradling a baby melon
swollen with expectation
that night, i carved
three luscious crescents
out of my cantaloupe
the flesh exploded with flavour
floral yet meaty
juices running down my chin
sweet just short of sour
i basked in the offering
i made to myself
grateful for the return
of my appetite