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Quince

Andy Kissane

Dec 01 2013

1 mins

Quince

 

It’s not easy to peel the grubby yellow skin

from a knuckle of quince and even with a sharp knife

the paring is difficult. You stack the slices

so they crowd together on pallid pastry,

as anaemic as refugees on a forced march.

The names of camps pop unmusically

into your mind: Treblinka, S-21,

Estadio Nacional. What creative impulse

turns an orchard into a concentration camp?

Will you and I finally turn away

from the oven of our own making,

to cook something wholesome and sustaining?

O long sonnet, late volta, in the ceramic dish

the pie is all goodness, the steaming,

rose-coloured quince sits on the spoon

as if it can already hear the applause.

 

Andy Kissane

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