placed on the pewter dish to ripen,
the neat folds of the linen tablecloth,
a pair of steel knives laid out.
All of that week we had been waiting
(my brother and I) for the right moment
when the bitterness would give way
and they would be soft, ready.
A quiet inner chemistry was at work,
we were told, a prickling at first
like a pot of milk heating on the stove,
the lid starting to rattle.
The plums rested on the table,
each one beginning to turn.
We children were impatient
in the kitchen’s sour heat –
one cheek flushed in a small hand,
was a prize-winner at the 2013 Troubadour International Poetry Prize, and her poems have appeared in various publications including Ambit, Poem International and forthcoming in Poetry Birmingham Literary Journal. She is also currently undertaking a critical and creative PhD at UEA in poetry.
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SPOONFEED x New Writing © Caitlin Allen