I never developed a taste for eggplant, but I always liked the name, "eggplant," and I like the alternate name even more: aubergine. I also like the color, the external texture, and the mystery of eggplant. So I wrote a poem about this vegetable--or is it a fruit? My apologies to fans of eggplant Parmesan. No offense intended. My homage to aubergine:
Eggplant, the bruise-fruit, heals
in a darkroom as photographs
of contusions develop.
Gathered in a farmer’s truck,
eggplants appear ready to travel
into outer space, there to visit
purple planets in our galaxy.
The mayor has disappeared.
He was last seen getting into
a taxicab near the produce-market.
He was accompanied by an eggplant,
which he carried in a burgundy valise.
Shiny, soft, and smooth,
eggplants suggest patent-leather
shoes worn by a species whose feet
differ from ours in certain respects.
Although I dislike eating
its slippery flesh, I pay
aubergine certain respects.
There is eggplant. There
it is—a pliable stone
sitting in purple patience
waiting for us to go away.