Rebecca Perry's Stone Fruit: reviews, interviews & Books of the Year
Rebecca Perry interviewed about her second collection Stone Fruit for The Poetry Extension; reviews in the TLS, The Poetry Review & elsewhere. Books of the Year 2021.
you frown in your beautiful portrait,
appearing dead even at the time,
in a weak blue oval of enamel sky.
what’s wrong, my little peach?
tonight a wolf’s eyes will glow
violet in a forest you’ll never see
in a place you can’t know. is that it?
and, somewhere, is a whole beach
made of glass pebbles you will never
lie down on, nor will your skin reflect
its blue, green, white, and burn.
*
beaches (2)
the house is large and dark
with narrow rooms
i woke today unable to move my arms
and called for him
the house is a honeycomb
the truth is i feel robbed
of a sweetness laboured hard for
the house behaves
like a person hiding in a cupboard
with held breath
i hate for the inanimate
to get the better of me
today i walked the length of the beach
to the caves
and thought of him for some time
pathetic girl
how colourless a beach in the rain
my imagination my rage
quiet and unlike any other
said to him
you know a cave had another form
before the water came
*
beaches (3)
a sand timer holds enough sand
to last the duration of one human life
the oldest sand was already ancient
when the first amphibian crawled onto the beach
the term egg timer came to prominence
only with the need for cooked egg perfection
sand of three transformative minutes
a princess is trapped inside the sand timer
swallowing the contents
a beach filling her mouth
the princess likes her eggs scrambled
with chives and black pepper
she swallows the sand and thinks about that
traditionally hourglass sand wasn’t sand
an hourglass is also a body
an hourglass body is specifically designed
for you to want to put your hands
around the smallest middle part
traditionally the material was
powdered marble and burnt eggshell
the princess fits in the sand timer so nicely
like a chick inside an egg
so much swallowing done
her stomach has become a beach
the yellow sphere in her centre
pouring through her smallest middle part
*
Apples are ¼ air
My husband, the botanist, he dreams green. If you dropped an apple
into the ocean, imagine, it could wash up on an island with nocturnal trees.
The particular way branches branch resemble the pathways through
the heart. These are the things he says in the empty space before sleep.
How tedious to be a man; so perpetually unchallenged. He is making
his own kind of language only the plants comprehend. I paint flowers
in miniature. He tells me this is theft, a liberty and not only that –
preservation, which is contrary to nature. I find joy only in the shrinking.
Like a strawberry, he presents his pips on the outside. They are so numerous.
At night the shadows of his hands move like leaves on the walls.
He is a man made up of dark corridors, but he isn’t a man at all. You can’t
tell me a carnivorous plant doesn’t have a brain, a brain and therefore a heart.
Perhaps now I am talking about myself. In his greenhouse he is so far away
like a man underwater, a man in a block of ice. When I dream, his mouth
becomes a pea-sized hole and I press the tip of my little finger to it.
I eat him whole. In the immaculate garden the sunflowers rotate with the sun.