Ilha Formosa
An island over the ocean west,
and my teacher, showing old ways,
said, eat nothing but fresh papaya;
and so I did, three times a day—
all I wanted, firm and sweet,
with only lime to boost
the clean, wide taste.
Papaya piled like fish
at market stalls—plump
and succulent treat,
though the best never left
a tangled mountain's feet—
kept there by a village man
who offered them from his trees.
Past the last bus stop I'd walk
to his hut and trade for fruit,
then sit in the shade to eat,
and that let me forget
about food—to know new paths:
behind the village hiking big noons
sheened white over all a mountain-
side of breathing green, quick
snakes striving full so hot
a heaven of leaves,
so back here now
I know about walking away
again—south this time perhaps,
where papaya began
when seasons were time
and no trees sailed yet
for Goa, Manila, Macao,
or for that island
where surely now
a man will be at his hut
with new fruit
and the folds of a mountain
opening down,
profligate with green.
C.E. Greer
(No Famous Place, Spring, 2010)
