first

 

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.