Signs of life

If I were to write a pineapple like a poem

I would look at its eyes to see

what it wanted to be, and then I would make it

what it did not expect to be.

I would slice off its crown

and its thorny skin, slash it and cut it down,

turn it inside out and around.

I would examine it for signs of life,

hold up a mirror to see if it breathed, check

for pulse or rhythm.

If its heart was still beating

I would eat it alive.

If I were to dig up a poem

like a potato

I would root it out of cold soil,

bang it hard on a rock

to shake off the dirt and look at its face

for signs of fight. I would wash it, scrape it,

gouge out its eyes, to make up my mind

if this poem was worth boiling or mashing

or roasting or baking

or cutting in cubes and frying

with cumin.

If I was satisfied

I would give it to you to read

and you might say, That

was a fine potato.