Aubergines in Acton
I eat strawberries in November,
ripened by a lamp in my kitchen
brighter than the sun. I turn the night on
when the moon is sick, and bite apples
bigger than their grandmother.
I hear apples will keep me from fading
into my father’s shaking ribs, I hear ribs
grow in metal drawers, locked by men
in white coats.
I eat salad to teach the boy who thinks chicken
is KFC batter, about William Blake’s garden,
how he lived naked to feel the grass on his skin.
The boy only knows fields as fictional motifs,
he doesn’t know carrots have leaves.
The city breeds shopping lists tapped on screens,
grows passion fruits in Sainsbury’s basements,
sells orange juice that is really white powder,
but is sweeter than the Guatemalan man’s stall.
There is no need to bring grapes to the sick
when grapes are pills burst from aluminium foil,
but I always smell melons just to know
they are still living, and the earth is not a factory
pushing out hyper-purple plums, one by one.