30 Poems in 30 Days: 5

Fruit Medley

Frozen raspberries are kind of nice in Greek yogurt

but sometimes they make my teeth buzz and their seeds

get stuck in my molars, like niggling reminders somewhere

in the haze of the mind’s outback that tell me 

I’ve forgotten something really important.  A very juicy 

orange is a treat, especially if it’s cold, and when I cut 

into its skin I recall Mom, who taught me how to slice

off the ends and score the skin like this, then peel them,

and then I think of Elmer Street, and elementary school, 

trudging home from kindergarten with a note pinned 

to my chest, avoiding the big boys who pinched and giggled, 

and then lazy summer afternoons spent throwing

rocks at passing cars, and lighting sticks on fire

behind Michelle’s house.  Kiwis are hairy handful, prickly

as a man’s balls, and their black seeds itch the roof of my mouth.

Strawberries, if they’re ripe and sweet, explode 

into shivery delight, saying more more more, and call for

no sugar.  But the overgrown pale ones, dusted

with pesticide dirt, taste woody, and always

one or two at the bottom of the box turn out to be

rotted with mold, suggesting that everything 

will eventually touch something corrupt and then

dissolve from within.  An apple a day is supposed to keep 

the doctor away but I would rather see my GP than 

bite into a mushy Red Delicious, whose skin tastes like 

poison and whose mealy flesh sucks the moisture from my mouth.

Paugh!  Eve, and worms, and mortality.   

Blueberries look like little sacks of blue blackness,

tiny buttons of moonless night, and bleed into our favorite shirts.   

I tend to forget about bananas.  They travel 

with spiders, don’t they?  Cherries are magnificent

and expensive and only good for three weeks of the year.

When I bite into a firm one, I remember

when sex was something I looked forward to,

shivering with anticipation.  As a child, I only ate

green grapes, but now that I’m losing my keen sight and

the world's sounds are starting to fade out, and
I have to take a pill in order to feel an artificial happiness,
I like the red ones -- seedless of course --

I celebrate their crisp juicy snap, their

cold water running down my throat, and I love them best

when they've been sacrificed into wine.