A version of this poem was published in The Newcastle Centre for the Literary Arts Review in January 2017 here.
Pomelo; plump pulp bunched at branches’ bottom,
thick limbs pulled hard, hulking legs six metres to the sky.
Moist beads swell, unpredictable prizes bred from waxed beds.
White flowers mislead the hungry warrior,
deceitful innocent flags
seduce the weary wanderer.
Each sun-setting season
expands the sweet-scented shadow,
buoys the bulbous load of pummelo.
Pummelo; two in thirty-two –
bitter chances with sweet survival.
The four-leaf clover flies eight times
around the world of exotic roulette.
Two truants betray thirty orange’s Adams
be careful when you bite a pommelo.
Pommelo; green-yellow rind ground
into molars, or salted pamplemousse.
Pamplemousse; purposeless production
candies the rind, rips raw flesh into strips
and dips in dark cocoa.
Eve’s forgotten apple, the elixir
of fruit’s forbidden shackles.
Shaman seeds sliced out of segments
sluice into liquor, inbred to inebriate
the uncertainty of citrus tea.