Cutting fruit, I become maternal.

My waist swells at the sink, my body slackens.

I fuse into its colours: the sunny meat
Of melons under their rough green rind:
The contained sweet gloze of grapes: the kiss
Of a blue knife through pear flesh.
My hands are sure and capable,
Judging the peel of skin just right
To collapse the unbruised flesh in my palm,
Placing it rightly for my decision
To eat, to slice, to chop.
All my awareness settles in my hands
With the deep surrender of pleasure.
I make my best fruit salads this way:
Hungering for them.
BY Alison Croggon from “This is the Stone”