Two Poems
Lucy Anne Watt, 23 May 1985
She had us stand to the scratch of blades, opening, from Bramleys, flat
spirals we’d match for length, so thin our knives ghosted through.
Then, she’d pick from lifted trays, like any marketeer, fenestrated
rose transparencies to mark (under ‘peel’) from ten. On the tables blue bowls of
vanilla slices, each purse of six cloves relaxing in the...