by Ray Ball, PhD
The center
tastes like
coconut,
drunk as a delicacy.
In the moon
the apocalypse
of fruit.
Inside it,
the absence.
They require
strength.
It seems incredible
that they can
contain whatever
I know.
And that I
and they
are soft
in texture.
Note from the author: This is a found poem. The original text is Jane E. Mangan’s critical edition of José de Acosta’s Natural and Moral History of the Indies.
Ray Ball, PhD, is a history professor and Pushcart nominee. She is the author of two history books, and her creative work has recently appeared in Coffin Bell, Ellipsis Zine, Moria, and UCity Review. Ray serves as an associate editor of the literary journal Alaska Women Speak. You can find her hiking and running Alaska’s trails, researching in the Spanish and Italian archives, or on Twitter @ProfessorBall.
(And don’t miss Ray’s poem In Pilates Class about exercise moves and memory. – Elephants Never)