Poem in Which Our Friendship is a Young Coconut

We’ve been here all day, sitting in the Jolly Butcher
chasing Stella with Teachers

and as the outside dark illuminates the pub
the coconut seller cups our friendship in her right palm;

her elbow crooked against the rucks of her hips,
she raises her other arm and swings.

I slur into the beer mat as her black blade slams the green husk.
Bits fly. Her sickle rises again

as she hacks the inner case and crown
until a crater gapes.

When you stumble to the bar she pokes our friendship with a clean straw
and wipes her fingers on folds of an old sari.

Later, as I trip in the Ladies, she bangs our friendship
on a large stone, spikes it with her knife, lifts,

and smashes it in exact halves. She scoops out the albuminous meat.
Here we are again, spoiling the sweet pulp.

Alison Winch

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