sweet tree
raised from
tropical
earth

to grow upright
and out
to sprout
from trunk
a bunch of
pink and
pointed pods

or perhaps
crimson or
yellow
aubergine
tangerine
green

scythed clean
from host
and hacked
in two
for getting at
seeds a-pulp
in white
and slimed

and spreading
them out under
the sun
to get hot
in their own
juices

to ferment
wild

to bake
dry

poured tinkling
by the
thousands into
sacks of hessian
for sending
‘cross seas

to furnace-cracked
futures
winnied and
conched
sweetened
melted
and hardened
into shapes
of other things


© 2017 Adelaide Heathfield

You're on the floor
Knee deep in memories
Swimming above the rest

Taped inside to a wall
Of secretly filled desires
Unadultrated
Fetish tied
Teeth gripped
Tears inside

Turning fears into
Excitement

You crave
You dance
At the thrill
Of the life
Those nights
brought out

A parrot, clothed in a robe of red,
sits and stares and admires the view;
A canvas of blue, untainted by cloud,
illuminated by life below.
A slight breeze bends the droplet shaped leaves
to stick out their noses and praise the sky,
some point fingers towards the parrot,
preoccupied with the scene.
Slender green snakes engulf the plants,
that take their slumber on the jungle bed,
while pointed leaves,
stiff and straight,
stand like cardboard props.
A monkey perches under a fruit crowned bush,
it’s brother watching in scorn.
Tempted like Eve, he plucks an orange from the tree
and cradles its belly, swollen and ripe.
Below,
a leafy cage swallows those who disobey,
observed by the guard in his uniform of blue.
Above, pink flowers
held up by tangled arms,
soak up the last of the dying flames,
as the sun is extinguished by the canopy.
Tropical torches flicker blue and white
playing hide and seek within dense undergrowth,
while the parrot still sits and admires the view,
amongst changing shades of green.

You’re so exotic.
He’d stare into my almond eyes,
one lighter than the other
fingers following the tangled waves
that ran down my shoulder blades.

What was exotic?
My father, blue eyed brute,
born into the Los Angeles slums
when the city lights were still
filled by browning fields.

My mother, unbleached hazel,
proud to say she’s been
an American longer,
than ever a refugee.

You should dye it black.
The tangled waves,
hues of coffee and amber
were never good enough.

You should dress more like them.
I’m sorry,
the pink and blue sampot hol
with silk ruffles and mandarin flowers
don’t match my ***** sneakers,
and for the hundredth time,
it’s not a kimono.
No, I don’t know anyone
who works at that massage parlor
with the women in six inch heels
parading around the golden dragon
out in front.

No, my father didn’t rescue
my mother from the nail salon
and what makes you think
I would know anything about
mail order brides.

Television has taught you
that I should be exotic
and neurotic.
Ready to submit
at the snap of your fingers.

Ready to present,
with a geisha’s poise.
You really expect me to respond?