Between Nectarines, a Genealogy by Doireann Ní Ghríofa

All winter, the infant inside me dreams
of nectarines. She thirsts
for dimpled clefts, jewel-juice, sweet guzzled flesh.

With each craving, I think of my great-grandmother,
stranger, girl who crossed an ocean
to scour grates and polish brass,

and returned home in a red
dress and cloche hat, brimful
with remembered fruits —

not our blackberries or crabapples,
no: she spoke of blood
-oranges, mangos, blueberries, nectarines.

I stand between them now
on the cold tile of this dawn-dark kitchen,
pressing my teeth through skin to pulp and pit.

In a hollow husk, it waits: small, furred seed,
hardy cargo, clenched
between future and past.

All winter, it dreams.

From: http://one.jacarpress.com/issue-7/

Date: 2015

By: Doireann Ní Ghríofa (1981- )