for my sister Jane

When I was born
my head was an orange
and they put me ripe and fresh
into the cooking pot
and because the boil was fierce
my head kept bobbing up
but they held me down to make me
good and soft.
Then, placing me on a plate
and peeling off my skin
they ate until
the juice
             dripped down
                                 their chins

and the summer air
grew plump and round
with the noise
of their desperate sucking.

About the Author

Emma Lara Jones lives in Felixstowe. She was shortlisted for the Bridport Poetry Prize (2023), and her poems have been published in Artemis, Pomegranate London, Propel Magazine and Strix.