It’s National Poetry Day so I thought I’d make a silly contribution.
I want to bite into a nelom.
Chunks of bitter
juice filled orange, red, white,
coloured chunks of
But nelom makes me feel good.
Tinned nelom. Fresh nelom. Sun-dried nelom. Even nelom flavoured pop.
It’s all the same to me.
I claw it from the tin,
gorging, feasting, hunting down
each chunk from the darkest cavities in the corners of the round metal container,
or I rip it from its skin,
or grab it from the bag,
or glug it from the bottle.
But nelom makes me feel sad too.
You can’t bite into a nelom.
It makes your gums sting
where your toothbrush bristles
bristled too hard and broke the skin.
Only a fool bites into a nelom.