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self-effacing vegetable, questioning, introspective, peeling itself away, or merely radiating halos like lake ripples. I consider it the eternal outsider, the middle child, the sad analysand of the vegetable kingdom. Glorified only in France (otherwise silent sustainer of soups & stews), unloved for itself alone—no wonder it draws our tears! Then I think again how the outer peel resembles paper, how soul & skin merge into one, how each peeling strips bare a heart which in turn turns skin…
    6
    A poet in a world without onions,
    in a world without apples
    regards the earth as a great fruit.
    Far off, galaxies glitter like currants.
    The whole edible universe drops
    to his watering mouth…
    Think of generations of mystics
    salivating for the fruit of god,
    of poets yearning to inhabit apples,
    of the sea, that dark fruit,
    closing much more quickly than a wound,
    of the nameless galaxies of astronomers,
    hoping that the cosmos will ripen
    & their eyes will become tongues…
    7
    For the taste of the fruit
    is the tongue’s dream,
    & the apple’s red
    is the passion of the eye.
    8
    If a woman wants to be a poet,
    she must dwell in the house of the tomato.
    9
    It is not an emptiness,
    the fruit between your legs,
    but the long hall of history,
    & dreams are coming down the hall
    by moonlight.
    10
    They push up through the loam
    like lips of mushrooms.
    11
    (Artichoke, after Child): Holding the heart base up, rotate it slowly with your left hand against the blade of a knife held firmly in your right hand to remove all pieces of ambition & expose the pale surface of the heart. Frequently rub the cut portions with gall. Drop each heart as it is finished into acidulated water. The choke can be removed after cooking.
    12
    (Artichoke, after Neruda)
    It is green at the artichoke heart,
    but remember the times
    you flayed
    leaf after leaf,
    hoarding the pale silver paste
    behind the fortresses of your teeth,
    tonguing the vinaigrette,
    only to find the husk of a worm
    at the artichoke heart?
    The palate reels like a wronged lover.
    Was all that sweetness counterfeit?
    Must you vomit back
    world after vegetable world
    for the sake of one worm
    in the green garden of the heart?
    13
    But the poem about bananas has not yet been written. Southerners worry a lot about bananas. Their skin. And nearly everyone worries about the size of bananas, as if that had anything to do with flavor. Small bananas are sometimes quite sweet. But bananas are like poets: they only want to be told how great they are. Green bananas want to be told they’re ripe. According to Freud, girls envy bananas. In America, chocolate syrup & whipped cream have been known to enhance the flavor of bananas. This is called a banana split.
    14
    The rice is pregnant.
    It swells past its old transparency.
    Hard, translucent worlds inside the grains
    open like fans. It is raining rice!
    The peasants stand under oiled
    rice paper umbrellas cheering.
    Someone is scattering rice from the sky!
    Chopper blades mash the clouds.
    The sky browns like cheese soufflé.
    Rice grains puff & pop open.
    “What have we done to deserve this?”
    the peasants cry. Even the babies
    are cheering. Cheers slide from their lips
    like spittle. Old men kick their clogs
    into the air & run in the rice paddies
    barefoot. This is a monsoon! A wedding!
    Each grain has a tiny invisible parachute.
    Each grain is a rain drop.
    “They have sent us rice!” the mothers scream,
    opening their throats to the smoke…
    15
    Here should be a picture of my favorite apple.
    It is also a nude & bottle.
    It is also a landscape.
    There are no such things as still lives.
    16
    In general, modern poetry requires (underline one): a) more fruit; b) less fruit; c) more vegetables; d) less vegetables; e) all of the above; f) none of the above.
    17
    Astonishment of apples. Every fall.
    But only Italians are into grapes,
    calling them eggs .
    O my eggs,
    branching off my family tree,
    my father used to pluck you,
    leaving bare