A mangosteen tastes like Like like like— like a poem with the word ghost in at least four different languages a cage trap of lightning, a sheen of sugar in a bowl like a memory of a plumeria tucked behind your Lola’s ear when you crush a petal of mangosteen in your mouth, the juice runs clear and smells the way certain plants sweeten their nectar at night when they feel the tiptoe-crawl of a bee drawing near. Crisp juice. Maybe more like a honeycreeper buzzing your head during golden hour. It’s a bowl of chipped ice set out on a tray. It’s the wingbeat of a plover on the
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