The Flesh

This slice of life,
this pineapple;
its tanginess muted in a salad,
tamed by intermingling
with less robust fruits

I go to the core of the matter
and indulge in the central axis,
tubular, harder, its flavor more subdued

Inviting juicy flesh,
a glimpse at nature's work
the ovaries: berries in a
Fibonacci sequence
of interlocking helices
a math pattern on its rugged skin
the whole of a pineapple as we know it

Tricky little things we are
we devour it avoiding
the burdens of reproduction
and feast on ovaries
sterilized for our consumption:
this fruit will breed
only when and where the growers dictate

Its crown, the last thing we slash
when we are done undressing it.