Pineapple and predators

 
I cleaned and organized  
the pantry and fridge last night,  
because  
heaven forbid
an expired hot sauce exist  
in my ordered  
and unused kitchen
 
Or worse!
That things
were where they don’t belong
 
The fucking horror!

I found a tin can of pineapple
behind
a can of black beans
 
and felt the thick band on the bottom
of my diaphragm fall through
my stomach and stay there
 
Cans of
pineapple
remind me
of two kittens
frolicking in tall, tall grass  
nothing but the
next joy-filled pounce  
on the agenda
 
And who doesn’t love watching kittens?
They are fucking delightful.
 
All crazed energy  
and bravado and sweetness,
and tiny sharp teeth  
and soft sleepy purrs
 
Kittens grow up.
Like all things, I guess  
and it’s bittersweet.
 
So I’m there,
having an actual  
existential crises  
over canned fruit:
 
to throw it away,  
properly order it,
or put it back
out of sight.
 
Instead.
I opened it.
Stood at the sink
and plucked a ring of fruit out  
of the can with one hand  
while watching a video of lions
 
I felt pineapple juice
trickle down my chin
as I watched a female lion,  
wearing a dried bib of blood,  
nuzzle up to the male.
 
Nothing is going to  
make my lungs ache  
more than thinking about  
those two wild little animals  
gamboling through
daisy fields.
 
But chills
crumble up my
back-flesh,  
because I’m
captivated by the  
sleek power of  
two apex predators  
rubbing heads together
on a ledge overseeing
a savannah
 
The deadly beauty
of owning
a world
as sweet
in its own way
 
as a randomly placed can of pineapple.