Black and grey pineapple tattoo with botanical leaves on a person's upper back, shown in a black and white photo with bra straps visible.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Pineapple tattoo on upper back

Botanical · Back · Black and grey · Photo

A large pineapple is tattooed centrally on the upper back, with its crown of spiky leaves extending towards the shoulders. The fruit is rendered in black ink with fine linework outlining the diamond-patterned skin and shading that gives it depth. The photograph is black and white, with the subject's back filling the frame and dark bra straps crossing the shoulders.

Botanical Back Pineapple Fruit Leaves

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Dear Brother Edmund,

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You will not believe what the steward of Lord Ashby's household carried up the hill on Tuesday, wrapped in a linen sheet like a relic. Brother Gilbert swears it is a pine cone the size of a child's head, though it wears a crown of thistle leaves and its skin is cut into little diamonds, each with a tiny eye. The abbot has ordered it set in the warm house beside the vines, and I have been made its keeper. That means I may touch it only with a clean cloth, and I am forbidden to speak of it to brothers who have never seen the sea.

Yesterday the infirmarian came to me with a face like Lent. Brother Hugh has had the flux for a month and cannot keep even broth down. He asked whether the fruit might be cut for him, and I said it was not ours to cut. He said it was the only thing in the house that could be called a mercy. I lay awake on that. In the morning I took the knife to the warm house myself, with the abbot's leave, and cut one slice from the base where the flesh ran gold and wet. I carried it across the yard on a pewter plate as though it were the host.

Hugh ate three mouthfuls and wept, then slept the whole afternoon, which he has not done since Michaelmas. I have kept the crown. I set it in a pot of sand and the good loam from under the apple tree, and each evening I water it from my own cup. I have told Gilbert it will never root, only so that I may be pleasantly proved wrong.

Write and tell me whether your roses survived the frost. If the crown takes, I will send you a slip, and in ten years some younger brother may stand where I stand and cut a fruit for a man too weak to ask. Pray for the root.

Your brother in the sand and the glass, Anselm