The Peerless Pear Poem by Morgan Michaels

An apple lost us Paradise
grapes are likely to be sour
plantains just plain lewd are
please do not even go there-
whereas Demeter's daughter
and a pomegranate cost us six
entire months of lousy weather
if what's written's true- and it probably is.
But you, golden pear
I've never known
linked to any serious malice
or anyone's downfall but your own
and I commend you- crown you king
of every tree-born thing:
Marquis of Fruits and Duke of Roots,
and say, for so I believe
you look sort of pleasantly bodacious
resting on that tile
painted over with lotuses, X's and arabesques
as it is: carmine, azure,
sunflower and pistachio,
brought from Talavera De La Reina
long years ago; and
now you look as if beaten by a stick
down from a heavenly or-
chard high over the stars and tumbled
capo-coda, years to here:
so big, so knobbed, with so endowed with eyes
you could be taken for a potato
but you're not, you're sweeter far
needing only to be skinned, pared, sliced,
sugared, poached in a little claret
and eaten- drowned in cream.