She stands beneath the tree, decides it will be apples for the next two weeks.
She inhales the vital green, enjoys the warmth of their weight in her palm.
She makes a ritual of each small feast, chooses the orange plate (the Clarice Cliff),
the sharpest knife. She savours the wafers of pearlescent flesh.
By the thirteenth day she is the sour spit of apple.
She floats above the car. It drives to Hamid’s bursting shop, cowers in the bay
at the back. From here she can see the snake.
She drips Issey Miyake into a steaming bath,
covers the eyes of all the watching clocks.
She floods the house with ‘Les Pêcheurs de Perles’,
spreads a white cloth, lays out the Clarice Cliff, a plate at every place.
The truth? No plates at all, the packets savaged,
flung about the kitchen floor.
The water’s cold. The woods are waiting.
She kneels to make the purge.