When glory has its day the world will greet a rising sun
A world awoken to no fighting nor the sound of guns
Men will shake each others hand and live for love and peace
All countries will unite as one
The fighting will all cease.
The view from the kitchen sink takes in the garden,
the fence, the tall trees in the valley, the children shouting
and crying, the feijoa tree, shedding its fruit,
like large green tears, or bullets big as a human heart.
Each swipe of the dish-sponge is anger or regret,
choices have consequences, consequences constrict
to the tightness of skin on a fruit, this feijoa
I slice into, savagely, and stop. Pineapple-scented.
The soft, fragrant jelly within.