A finger's touch removes
the powdery veneer and now
they're satin-skinned, blue-violet,
dark droplets hefted in the palm.
Knife-point finds the crease, opens
a slit. Quick rotation, circumference
complete. A twist, knife-flick
tosses out the stone.
Golden flesh bright
under the blade, firm halves chopped,
mashed, measured.
Slow circles with the wooden spoon
stave off burning. Sugar's added
when the soft mass bubbles.
Stir and stir, the purple seeps
from skins into flesh, lightens,
loses its midnight darkness.
Red-violet, color of velvet,
favorite crayons, the prayer book.
Plum.
4 comments:
Hi Joanne,
Nice poem!
I liked the pace of it--though I really wanted to know what fruit it was throughout (and that could just be me as a reader). I wondered at the title, and thought maybe you could just call it "Plum?"
Perhaps a few more articles would also smooth the piece a bit in the second stanza?
Love plums, this makes me love them more
I like this very much (and the recurring plum theme through several May Day poems this year!).
I thought you meant plum all along, but I didn't want you to tell me that at the end. I wouldn't mind plum as a title, or earlier on in the poem, but it felt a little too conclusive just sitting there at the end like that.
The word "hefted" threw me because the imagery all along was very delicate. Heft makes me think of a brick. Maybe "cradled?" or something along those lines?
I agree with T. Plum would be a fine title.
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