In a Nutshell

By | 13 May 2024

The shape of a son hidden in the tablecloth green.
The cherries were painted, smiled as the dish
was stirred with the spoon that occasionally
doubled as a knife. You had a ready mouth
for ripeness. She taught you that scenery matters,
for where else can sorrow be stored?
A mother’s message is in the gloss, two tight
braids, the nod of equivalence, scant wrappings.
You cupped your dress for acorns, crossed the lawn
to feed your hunger. Secret transactions rustling
under the eaves, the poem’s belly hinting at
extremes. Green in nature is one thing,
green in literature another.
A daughter in hand
is worth two in the bush. When taste is not
a division of labour, it becomes love of the light.
The magic square revealed to be, after all, a circle.
You lick your fingers, kitchen days on check.

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