Vynka Hallam


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Sometimes a craving comes for salt, not sweet, For fruits that you can eat Only if pickled in a vat of tears— A rich and dark and indehiscent meat Clinging tightly to the pit—on spears
Of toothpicks maybe, drowned beneath a tide
Of vodka and vermouth, Rocking at the bottom of a wide, Shallow, long-stemmed glass, and gentrified,
Or rustic, on a plate cracked like a tooth,
Paradigmatic summers that decline Like singular archaic nouns, the troops Of hours in retreat. These fruits are mine—
Small bitter drupes
Full of the golden past and cured in brine.
- A.E Stallings

Acrylic on Canvas

82 x 82cm

Raw Oak Timber floating frame