March 3

my son runs off    while we visit my father
brings me a palmful   of cape gooseberries
tiny globes    suspended  in ghostly lanterns

‘i found them in the bin,’  he says, and i follow
to where a tree staggers  resolutely upright from a wheelie bin

other plants cascade from the garden
my father had to abandon  when steps became treacherous
he still mourns the goldfish that died   when he couldn’t feed them daily

golden in sunlight  the tiny tree  extends its bounty  
still fruiting     despite wizened branches
we collect each sour-sweet morsel – ‘we’ll have to wash them,’ my son says.

the taste of my childhood afternoons  plucked
from a tree carefully planted   nourished
in the home that my immigrant father made for us.

Renee Liang

Renee Liang is a poet, playwright and essayist.  She has toured eight plays and collaborates on visual arts works, dance, film, opera, community events and music. Some poetry and short fiction are anthologised. A memoir of motherhood, When We Remember to Breathe, with Michele Powles, appeared in 2019. In 2018 she was appointed a Member of the NZ Order of Merit for services to the arts. Read NZ page