How to make jam

Wind gusts through the tree next door, cherry plums

rain down on the pavement. Summer heat—

damp and cloying—softens and rots the fruit.

The green and unripened roll into the gutter, kicked

by passing children. A beagle snuffles the sweet

fruit, trots on to a streetlight marked with stirring

scents of the husky at number two. Leaves stir,

twist and whisper as the wind eddies. Plums

shudder and drop; I’m reminded of sweet

sweet jam. I grab the straw broom and, in the heat,

sweep the fallen into a bucket, kick

the rotten to one side, cradle the choicest fruit

inside to wash. A mother lode of fruit

soaks in the kitchen sink. I tumble and stir

the street grit from the fruit, getting a kick,

fingers flicking the slick skin of plum.

Now nude, plump, blanketed in sugar, with the hot

plate glowing, the fruit sweats to sticky sweetness.

I add lemon juice; sour to the sweet.

The wooden spoon slows through the thickening fruit.

(I cast back to summers spent in nana’s hot

kitchen. Her white apron crisp as she stirred

the pot, scooped a spoonful, let us taste the plums

before we’d race back outside to kick

the football. Tanned legs, bare feet, kicking

the ball among the apple trees, the sweet

stain of grass marking our knees green.) The plum

stew spatters hot purple on my skin, the fruit

stinging in spots. My reverie broken; I stir.

Bubbles steam and pop as I turn off the heat.

Glass jars, lids, sterilised by the white heat

of oven that licks my legs as I kick

the door shut. Caramel fruit and sugar stir

my senses as I pour the viscous sweet

into hot jam jars. I imagine scones, fruit,

cream. I imagine licking the plum

jam from my fingers. Tart plums, pavement fruit,

softly sweet with the summer’s heat

and a kick of sugar. My tummy rumbles and stirs.