Dominique Parris
A Part
Some things know about letting go
about how and when,
and how much.
My knife rocks around the circumference of an avocado pit
and two halves cleave with ease—
though that’s not the wonder of it.
Slicing the length into quarters
reveals twin bruises, grey and sunken.
No matter.
I coax the stippled peel backwards, yielding
whorls of purple velvet underbelly,
I watch the flesh of the fruit
as she relinquishes her blemish
to the retracting peel—
jagged half moon
perfectly excised.
Another clean leaving.