Mom makes me eat it straight out of the can.
Pineapple,
that yellow enemy disguised
as tropical fruit.
I hate the sick,
sweetness of it all.
Peaches bullying me from the table;
red cherries bobbing
in yellow juice, chanting as they ooze
past lumpy mango, unfamiliar pear.
Eat it,
she says, oblivious
to the riot of fruit in my tin.
I can barely hear her
over the cantaloupe frenzy.
I throw the fruit onto the floor,
smash the tangy fortress
into a million pieces, stomp each cherry
one by one,
tell the bananas to never come back.

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