tahi | Feijoas in the Off-Season

rua | Transit Sequence

toru | Soil Report
—
tahi | Feijoas in the Off-Season



My mormor’s hands still smell of kerosene

and feijoas left too long

in the washhouse dark.
She opens one with her thumbnail.
Bruise-sugar.
Green skin splitting

against the grain.
I watch from the doorway

of another hemisphere,

afternoon whitening

through apartment glass.
She offers me half—
the black seed-cluster

slick in the light.
Neither of us says

why the knife stays open

in her palm.
Outside, rain moves over corrugated iron

like someone searching

for the right house.
Inside—
steel, sugar, sap.
The cut remembers

the tree

all the way down.