It’s that skin smelling of cut grass

and wet liquorice, that heart-throbbing black

if it had a voice it would be throaty, husky-black

with undertones and zip-up high-heel boots:

Aubergine, aubergine; squeaky clean

the first foreign food I knew—

the French word slipping off my tongue

like the colour

of something rude.

Aubergine, aubergine—slippery sheen

nightshade-black; satin. Pick it up,

put it back. Skin tacky like PVC—

lit up like a stripper—or the tight black trousers

on the snaking hips of a Greek waiter—seducer

of extra virgin olive oil.

I take the sharpest stainless steel knife

think: sleaze. A little resistance, a hint of a squeal

as it gives green-pale flesh—

I crush salt, sprinkle,

watch it sweat.

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Nostrils hungry

for the smell of summer,

I am shelling peas.

I grip each taut body

and unzip,

thumbing out of the soft

pods, emerald beads,

tiny as thrushes’ hearts.

I taste the sweetness

at the back of my throat,

salivate, bite into one, chew

away the bitterness

until a ragged cloth is left.

Into the effervescence we plop them,

in cool handfuls; the air froths

with sugar-scent, garden loam, fresh mint.

Some escape to corners

beneath the kitchen furniture;

one, I save, to slip under your mattress.

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parcelled in pearly tissue

bulbous with promise

you hint at purple   

each clove fixed

a little hoof of tempting toes

requiring dexterity

of the most sensitive kind

to swivel  dice   or press

              women

should use you as a test

to find if a man

will have a tender

touch

you cling to fingers

               pungently  

singe the tongue    

turn breath to snakes

in France

they dangle you  

in luminous tresses        in Italy

your globes placed     in pairs

wait to be lifted like the breasts

of Venus from the sea

to dress salad    

ooze in marinades     

come   shift your papery pelt   

sizzle with red onion

in the flaming heat of the oil    

              caramelise.

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Dusk crumples our yellow

into tissue fingers

sticky with scents of spice and mulch;

              each night we see our young

creak, swell, yearn

for the sky’s gleam.

Once, through a furze

of erect hairs, we saw plump slugs

trail over their bodies,

              sometimes a hand reaches

into our prickled canopy,

takes some of them to another place.

We hear whispers of soup and stew

but refuse to imagine—we dream

of reaching the light.

              Once, a woman chose us

instead of candles for her table,

she lifted us close to her face

the nearest we have been to love.  

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