Tuesday, 6 March 2012


Writings from the Nothing prepared me for this  project.


Michael holds a bowl of fruit
For his father
Freshly picked
Ripe round orange
Firm pungent clean
Michael waits for his father
Michael is four.
The fruit sits
The smell rises
Too ripe
The new flesh changes
then dries
Michael is ten.
Mold grows
The skin shrinks
The first cracks appear
Michael is fifteen
The fruit sits untouched
The mold spurs deepen
And take hold of the flesh
Tendrils curling rotting
Michael is twenty
The micro-organisms merge into each other
From spurs to dust to slop
The fruit turns to swills
Everyone ignores it
Michael is twenty-three.
His father does not come
His father will never come
The fruit stinks out the house.
Michael digs a hole in the back yard
And buries the fruit
Under the tree from where it came.
Michael is now and always will be
A fatherless son.
The tree produces new fruit
Ready for picking.

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