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.