War Poet.ca - A CFAP Project by Suzanne Steele

weird-ass fruit

mid-flight take off ceramic plates, helmet, ballistics. the Herc sighs. everyone rubs their eyes. gets up to stretch. rustles through brown lunch bags for an oatmeal bar. apple. box of juice.

look out the little window on the cargo deck. the blue world far below. the Herc. banks. strap in. land in another place of sand. staging base. but when the ramp lets down, the smell of salt, sea, flowers. and diesel.

we are sorted. VIPs (me) this way. the ranks that. I go to privacy/alone. they surrender uniforms and guns for shorts and shirts, bunks.

sms outside the mess where they serve w-a fruit/nov. 2009

we meet again hours later in the mess. over camel yogurt that is smoother and creamier than anything I’ve ever tasted. and we meet over the table of weird-ass fruit. dragony. red and green and yellow and orange. little bobbles of cactus. starfruit. something slimy and delicious.

and I know more than one soldier who speaks longingly of that table of fruit.
but I’m thinking that it’s more than the sweetness, the freshness after the long drought.

I’m thinking that weird-ass fruit is the taste of freedom. the knowledge that you’ve made it out alive.

About This Page

The page you're reading contains a single diary entry entitled weird-ass fruit. It was posted here on April 17, 2010.


Complete diary archive