Whence the gravity of your deep, deep red,
You’re some vestigially corporeal internal organ of an angel,
lingering since the celestial being could never quite shed
a taste for sole in sauce and malicious wit.
These weaknesses lead direct
to the fruit’s fine and parabolic taste.
The lover of cherries is chained to earth’s rack
knowing no better than to eat and eat
until the bowl is exhausted --
the plate littered with stems and stones.
The grave sweet pear philosophizes, grows
Sitzfleisch, its subtly honeyed heft aspires
to heaven still, borne up by old afflatus.
The pear d’un certain age remembers still –
each time it hears the wind or sees the sun –
the nectar and ambrosia of its youth --
white blossoms fluttered perfect, without thought.
The banana’s not at all like Carmen Miranda,
stodgy rather with carbohydrate respectability,
wrapped in the most mild of sugars,
mysterious seeds all but intangible,
and a flavor that fits noiseless to the tongue,
a blanket of taste leaving no room at all,
a worthy confidante in tiny house,
full of lace and African violets,
hissing radiators, and mail order catalogues.
And when the parcel arrives in the mail,
the banana is always satisfied.
The apple’s a salesman of industrial screws
with a sample case in the trunk,
spare suit hanging by the back seat,
smelling of cologne and slick hair,
he dreams of fraternity friends
and that ingenious Green Delicious
from the orchard’s edge
he met one night in Cincinnati
and never saw again.
a lovely face
glimpsed from a train window,
hanging laundry like an angel,
linens aloft like wings
in a small town back yard long ago.
Grapefruit taste’s cut loose from the ground
and mounting fast to vanish,
but still the fruit has vegetable leather skin,
that seems to bear the onus of memory
of faithless friends,
till the knife frees them all
and displays inside
a star’s radial symmetry
bracing to tongue and eye alike,
consumed in a flash.
how honest an orange your tone
you never would deceive
and your pattern, with tapering elegance
though none would take you for a debutante,
your inner core’s like some great oak’s
and you have, too, an esoteric side,
secret given only to strivers with good teeth
(let me kneel beside Bugs Bunny!)
though shorn of your fine feathery top
and trimmed of that lowest reach of root
that pursued ever downward into earth
in search of inspiration
flayed now of your wholesome skin
and eaten without thought
I hope to steal your wisdom yet
o honest orange carrot