Sam Herschel Wein
Middle of the party, just starting
to dance, he said,
“Are you a pineapple or an asparagus?”
but the music was too loud to
hear him, so I asked him to speak up,
(though) I could read his agape
lips. Was he asking about
my thorned personality, prickly and obtuse?
Was I shriveled at an end— too smart?
His eyes beckon to his crotch, my eyes
rainbow posters on the wall, my
left temple parallel to the floor.
I think if I were a fruit I’d be
a passion fruit,
I think I’m a wild artichoke, I think I kiss
people harder than others – but that’s
a secret. His eyes
on me waiting for a response,
my mouth circling my head tilting his
hands pressing my legs I said (well) I
whispered I ate a banana this morning,
I hush hushed that guavas grow in tropical
climates, (wanting to) scream that fruits
deform, (become) loose to tightly brimmed
pants with boots, pineapples aren’t
asparagus but they do shrivel
& get lost & get felt up at parties
without offering permission.
“Are you a fruit or not?” his hands
reached for my inner thigh, & I
(tried to) say, I’m
to be splattered seeds, I’m not
ready to pick or be picked.