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Pineapple


Henceforth, Fruit may never stand for Woman
As a matter of course, automatic simulacrum.
Representing desiccation and death, its husk
Shrivels seeds, invariably consumed by the
Fairly indiscriminate, pulped, ground, chopped.
Tossed; force-fed syrup. This pineapple on the
Canvas may only be a woman when upright,
Against an abstract background and cleaved
By its self alone. Mane of forest, feral, fecund.
Imposing, monolithic, millennia apart from the
Tales our grandmothers tell us of nanas’ curse
Of vaginal ill-health when eaten, yet retaining
All the menace of such myth. A pox on you and
Your vaginas, it could say – but it loves the pith
Of a woman, and would never strike fear in her
Heart, like the murder of armoured, segmented
Flesh, fork gone runny with sweet yellow juice.