The Pineapple

I.  Prelude

The pineapple sits smugly on the table,
A veritable king of the jungle.
Fangs bared.
Claws clenched.
Talons tensed.

It will not be taken by surprise.

There is a dangerous beauty
In the pineapple’s ferocious symmetry.
Its fiery hue.
Its thorny crown.

I approach warily.
My knife is sharp.

I will not be denied.
My woman is watching.

II.  Fruition

The pineapple sits vanquished on the table.
Sliced open.
Slain.

I bask in the admiring gaze of my woman.

I take a chunk of pineapple in my mouth.
The taste is an exquisite blend of sweet and tart.
The juice is a sticky elixir that runs down my chin
And splatters like luscious rain drops on the ground.

I place a chunk of pineapple in my woman’s mouth
And the juice dribbles down her chin
And I lean over and lick it off
And I taste the sweet tartness and the tart sweetness of the pineapple juice
And I taste the indescribable heavenly loveliness of my woman’s skin
And I lick her some more
And I can’t stop licking
Except to say Thank you, Lord, for creating
This day and
This woman and
This pineapple.

Published in Chiron Review, Winter 2016-17