Cashew Gatherers
Waking to borrow gunny sacks
from the firewood-shed, we set out
on April mornings along the winding
trail to the cashew trees stretching
on the horizon of grandpa’s garden.
The branches, lifting to split the sky,
wove with their leaves, an elaborate
roof. So, sunlight, when it entered,
was sifted, and spiraling, made puddles
at our feet, where we discovered
like small commas, the soot-shelled
cashew-nuts, waiting. Camouflaged
against tree-trunks, the bats hung
from branches, their stomachs swollen
ripe with cashew-apples. In their cavern,
we were only silent gatherers, bending
to fill our sacks with nuts, and the occasional
bat-bitten fruit, which we carried to the well
and washing, ate before returning home.
On evenings, seated in his sling chair,
grandpa split with his long paring knife
the shells into two, wiping the blister
-milk in his hands with a piece of cloth.
When each black shell fell, exposing
the white seed within, pair after pair,
we closed our eyes and thought of the bats
awakening, their wings opening,
black and blind, to the fruit of night.
*
Ranudi Gunawardena is a Sri Lankan poet whose work explores the wombscape, childhood in rural landscapes, and the uncanny in nature among others. Her work has appeared in literary magazines such as Action, Spectacle, Chestnut Review, Magma, and Shō. She studies at Williams College.
Bravo! Thank you.