FRUIT LIFE

for J M–G

I was an ugli fruit. I was a miracle berry.
I was a banana. I became a watermelon.
If the gooseberries are bitching, I become
a grape, a satsuma or an orange, a pear.

When my mother asks why, I reply plum
and kumquat. A punnet of strawberries,
blackberries bursting from thorns.
These are my fruit lies, my pineapples

on the window sill, shouldered by Lemon
Zest Morning Fresh and scouring pads.
I am a mango, a kiwi, a papaya, tomatoes
and you will not juice me until I am ripe. 



This poem was commissioned for charity. You too can commission here
http://www.justgiving.com/Gavin-Hudson1

FRUITS

When I talk about fruits, I'm not talking about fruits, I mean fruits

in the literal sense as opposed to the metaphoric, fruits such as apples

and oranges and pears. Straight up fruits, not those, innuendo zested,

non-literal fruits. When I peel a banana, I peel a banana, 
taking the skin in my fingers and pulling it back to reveal a moist tip

and shaft. I mean to peel a banana and eat it. The long, white flesh taken

in portions and swallowed in lumps down my throat. Although, some fruits resist

being eaten with tough, hairy exteriors, though kiwis give in

if you open them up with a spoon first and eat out their soft parts.

In my experience, lychees need to be stoned and similarly cherries, 

if they're to be taken with ease and red wine at parties. Do you see 

what I mean? Sometimes this business of fruits is confused 

by those melons who can't find their honeydews among their cantaloupes. 

I mean fruits, are not that difficult to spot on the whole, only tomatoes

upset the vegetable cart with their impostering as french-dressed salad and not fruit.