This jar of rosy-purple jam is labelled
Early Rivers, August ’82 –
the date I made it, the name the farmer gave
those plums, smooth as onyx eggs, but warmer.
The dimpled groove, bloom-dusted, down each fuit
pouted at the touch of my knife, yielding
the stone I put inside a cotton sock
(relict of a worn-out pair – every
boiling dyed it darker crimson – from one
plum-season to the next I saved it) then pushed
the lumpy tied-up bag into the centre of
the pulpy amber halves and melting sugar
in the preserving kettle, and let the mixture
ooze its pectins, odours, juices, flavours,
until the chemistry of time and fire
produced this sharpness, sweetness, that I’m eating
now, straight from the jar, smearing my mouth,
digging the spoon in deeper, seeking a taste
undiluted even by nostalgia.
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