I learnt the word патладжан early on.
Not long after, amongst refurbished stalls
beyond the central market, aubergine
wasn’t on the list, but I took back
raspberries the colour of arterial blood
and improvised a breakfast overlooking
cafe tables, fronds of urban scrub.
I would be there now. By crevices
of stone walls and tram incursions,
we’d be sipping black coffee
and waiting on friends. But here,
in our kitchen, I’m making tea
and патладжанът
on the side
