I.
Pluck from the middle
with a pop
throw me away
no – cut me
I am ripe.
II.
Pine of the Indians
my hair
the tail of a parrot
in flight.
III.
All these rough cells
heavy skin
inside, within
sweetness that
sticks
a scent that
stays to remind
you of me.
IV.
The worn stone
of an ancient balustrade
grabbed by a little girl
in a white dress
the King pulls her up the stairs.
V.
At the bottom
yellow starts to brown
inside softness
embracing
your hard core
not impenetrable
but challenging to release.
VI.
Seeds swallowed
or picked away
sometimes
there is an outside hollow
in the sweet stuff too.
VII.
Diagonally
you approach
on each step
you are pricked.
VIII.
Green scars
scarification
armor with plates
orderly torture.
IX.
Sometimes
as I aged
I tried and failed
at ombre shades
the failure of my fashion hair,
leaning tipsily.
X.
Use your big knife
the one you dislike using
this is a ritual
kings demand them
even at drawing and quartering time.
XI.
Big thirds
or small sixths
how
do you want your dessert
to disappear?
XII.
Twist or cut
the ends come off next
then remove
the core
don’t cry
people don’t eat bones.
XIII.
Chocolate afterward
is better than water.
Odilonvert 