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Mimi Khalvati



However small, it’s still an orchard –
three limes, a pomegranate and a kumquat.

Each stands in a circle of shade
and bedding plants. Sweetpeas brought

from England have died at the foot
of their canes. Above, the pepper tree

that went wild in a sudden storm,
throwing its branches all over the place,

hangs droops of coral berries against
a calendar sky. Cones, black droppings

in the dust, a fragment of rope
knotted at both ends, a fleeting shadow –

a swallow if you look up. But no,
I keep my gaze on the ground.

If the trees were horses, they’d be foals
and the pepper tree their barn.



Written at the Almassera Vella 2012


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