Excellent Fruit

I am scalping the pineapple

at its tufted crown. Bringing a sharp

fish knife down

each knotty side, peeling the hide

in strips to get at all

that is juicy and gold. When in company,

I whittle it into manageable cubes

of fruit-meat, fork it carefully

into my open mouth, palm cupped

beneath my chin to catch errant drips.

But alone, I lay waste to courtesy,

snatch up that sunny

flesh as though it were

corn, palming each end

so my teeth can do

their good work, side to side,

and I perform a conquest

dance in my kitchen, with the

blood of ananas dripping

down my throat, and everything

I encounter, so sticky.

Afterwards I am pure, full

of the best plant-food imaginable,

and I nap on the chaise lounge

like a queen, like a g-ddamn queen

naked in the sun that obeys her,

with all courtiers eyes averted

from her beauty, so rich with gold

and her army’s command and all

the pineapples across the land.