Pureed, Peeled, Gummed

Nov 21 2019

Just the right blush of green.

Caught

on that single day of perfection,

the exact hour, perhaps;

the tipping point

between over-ripe

and under.

Like that golden age

in your teens or early twenties

when you are invincible

and forever young

and the world is for changing.

True, unlike the fruit

your bruises heal

a backbone keeps you straight.

And you can be peeled over and over,

opened to the world

and its corrupting air;

your protective skin stripped,

soft pale pulp

exposed.

Your slippery outer layer

blackening where it fell,

a vestige of your past

as treacherous to others

as it is to yourself.

Starch turning to sugar,

until the delicate floral notes

are soon overwhelmed

by a sharply cloying sweetness,

the firm satisfying bite

reduced to mush.

Just a matter of days

until the peel thins and slackens

to a softly mottled brown.

The way the back of the hand

reveals one's age

unerringly,

its liver spots

and broken veins

and fragile skin

so waxily transparent.

Along with the wattled neck

and weary voice

and crumbling spine,

painful, bent

shortening.

They say the perfect fruit

that comes in its own container

and can be made into bread, smoothie, split

muffin, pie, chip.

A baby's first solid.

A comfort food

for the middle-aged and time-pressed.

And for the very elderly, spoon-fed

in some messy pureed concoction.

Or eaten straight,

undeterred

by its indecent shape

bright yellow tumescence.