‘Short sentences,’ he says.
Tells me to think of words as fruits.
To be cut into slivers,
Delicately pruned.
To be
Sliced
Diced
Juiced
Minced
“Gather only the choicest pieces,” says he,
“serve only the best of your yield.”
He says it is an art, which I must learn or perish -
To serve only what others want from me
To hide the many ugly bits or leave them at the bottom of the tree.
“You must learn so others can marvel, at the perfectly cut slices
To wield your knife unflinchingly, having no emotion for the extra ‘e’s and ‘r’s”
He doesn’t know the pleasure of biting into whole fruit.
Of having juice drip down your chin and palms, to be licked off.
He doesn’t see the joy of gathering everything into an overflowing basket
To be placed in the kitchen only for you to be grateful at the abundance
Slowly rotting away – until overturned into the bin.
He doesn’t know that I gather, only when it is for myself
And when I’m not hungry
There will be no meal on the table.
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