To think that, as a boy of thirteen, I would grapple 
with my first pineapple, 
its exposed breast 
setting itself as another test 
of my will-power, knowing in my bones 
that it stood for something other than itself alone 
while having absolutely no sense 
of its being a world-wide symbol of munificence. 
Munificence—right? Not munitions, if you understand 
where I'm coming from. As if the open hand 
might, for once, put paid 
to the hand-grenade 
in one corner of the planet. 
I'm talking about pineapples—right?—not pomegranates.

Added: Feb 27 2003 | Viewed: 1248 times | Comments (0)

Poet: Paul Muldoon
Poem: Pineapples And Pomegranates
Volume: Moy Sand and Gravel
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