The Rind

You can keep your blood red apples.

I will leave them in the bowl
along with any connotations about
temptation
innocence
and lust
that might want to accompany them.

No matter what the poets say,
I have never found a mirror for myself
or my desires
in their thin, waxy skins
and ill-defined cores.

Instead, give me the fruits with the thickened rinds;
My nails are sharp enough to pierce grapefruit peels
and I can temper my patience to divide the orange slices.

Offer me the fruits with the stone centers;
I know how deeply I can bite peaches without chipping teeth
and can tie knots in cherry stems with my tongue.

Give me the complicated fruits
the strange fruits
the difficult ones.

I will carve the pineapples with steel blades.

I will gouge the pips from the pomegranates.

I will crack the coconuts in my fist.

You can keep your flimsy apple metaphors.
I was never the delicate girl in that story
and I will not take such a lazy offering
just because some snake
or witch
or handsome man held it out to me at arm's length.

I will take the fruits of my labors
and enjoy them with smug satisfaction
rather that subtext.