A problem of size / A matter of size

I wake from a dream about kumquats and immediately read a passage about kumquats. Later, I comb the pages but I cannot for the life of me find the source. I hardly know what a kumquat is. Are they even fruits? I thought they were spelt with a ‘c’. I thought they were largely ornamental, dotting trimmed shrubs, detailed in still life paintings. I ask a friend if they are tiny melons and she says no, you’re thinking of cantaloupes. But it was definitely kumquats.

Eternal return; a film still 

In a bathroom in a train station outside of the city a woman is painting her nails cherry red, leaning on the hand sink. The mother beside her changes her child’s diaper. I squeeze in between them to wash my hands and consider plucking my eyebrows. The compulsion arrives out of nowhere: or is it an image of three women? I go outside and eat two tangelos on a park bench. Wiping juice from my hands onto my jeans, I wait for a signal that the coach is ready to board and look at the elderly couple seated opposite, her arm around his waist, his hand on his cane, ribbons of peel falling at my feet, loops of film reel on the cutting room floor.

Revolutions

The double nature of the grape is never resolved. I hold it in my hand and stumble. I walk the fruit aisle like a vineyard and pick a few so I can watch them fly in a triumphant arc before they fall in a juicy burst! I feel like a clown head at a carnival stall. The grape is its own wheel of fortune so I steal away a bunch to buy a vowel. O, please. While pruning overgrown grape vines, a nest with two blue-mottled eggs is found. A third shell lies crumpled. A wet hatchling blindly beaks the air, wrinkled as a raisin. I remove my hand and the shroud of leaves falls back into place.

Splendour 

A cantaloupe goes; by many names, it divides into eight segments or more. Is orange-ready. Could lay out the secrets of the harmony of the spheres – if it chose to. I carry it around and mistake it for my belly – do I belie the rotund with mystique? When I cut it open I can almost hear a clear rumbling. Each crescent cuts a toothy grin. It mocks the other fruits, gently. Yes, a rock with an inside! A real gem. Heart of stringing seeds. A crisscrossing map encases the whole of this galaxy.

Hedging bets 

I carry a bowl of citrus compost to place on the soil under the mandarin tree. It happens sometimes that you return a thing to its source so it can grow. Don’t ask me how it works. I harbour no original theories on rebirth but the balance makes intrinsic sense to me. Other things startle me. The fishmonger thrusts a shark head upon the gardener: bury this under your roses, you’ll thank me. The gardener gives a large tip. Should the shark not decompose at sea? But the roses are flourishing majestically.