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after the water-colour by Thornton Walker

We are a squat of guavas
arranged to advantage on blue
or plopped in Malacca bowls
(it’s a tight squeeze).
‘Jade, emerald, malachite, vert,’
we murmur together,
‘loden, reseda, celadon, sage’ –
our gently differing opinions are always green.
From imminence to immanence
we have come –
having made the long trip
from fruit to art,
we have entered guava heaven.
Evolution was a heavy scene
and we do not intend to budge again.
From our vantage point
we watch the colour of time,
we loll,
comatose as the thighs
of the lumpy old woman
of Bukit Bintang
who fell asleep in a Reject Shop
and was sold for a song.
Aeons and aeons it’s been,
from primordial jelly
to a verdigris thought,
and we are exhausted, worn-out, done,
utterly, utterly guava.