I always admired your knife work, pressured
slices through the husks of pomegranates,
you’d quarter the fruit till it fell in ruby wedges,
garnet juice running over cream pith;
how you’d squeeze to free the fleshy seeds,
scatter them over crumbled cheese, salt a few
over your shoulder then, eat, your command
while the knife glinted on the board.
How could I refuse as you turned
your attention to the question of bread?
Winter now and the pomegranates
have shriveled into little bombs
on the bare tree you nailed to the wall,
your knives oiled and waiting in the block.
Kate Noakes is a Welsh poet and non-fiction writer living in Bristol. She has published nine collections and two pamphlets. With a PhD in Critical and Creative Writing, she programmes the poetry for the Clifton Literature Festival and is one third of the performance group, Braid (braidpoetry.com).
More work by Kate Noakes
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