Father begins the ritual, dousing his hands and his tarnished scimitar in oil.

He brings the blade down, breaking coarse green skin.
The knife is wedged into the folds of the flesh and shimmied

till it reaches the centre of the bruised fruit.

The scent of the jackfruit
oozes from the gaping wound 

and pools on the grainy kitchen floor.

The children tower over the diligent father,

as he rests his hands over the crevice he’s crafted, 

slipping his thumbs into the wound.
Eviscerating the jackfruit. 

White strands of latex and sap shred and rip

as the golden pods of flesh reveal themselves 

in the orange hue of the afternoon sun.

The children’s eyes bore into the meat of the fruit

as father plucks the flesh from the carcass

and hands it to his offspring. 

He serves the flesh that’s furthest from the bruise. The fruit’s plummet has bludgeoned its base.

          He hands the pristine to his wife and

children,

                continuing his scavenge,

                   occasionally helping himself to a

morsel.   

 His fingers pry and peel the white tendons

         that cling to the meat.

    Plucking and preserving the rest,

                  keeping them aside.

           Work hasn’t found him this afternoon;

            labour eludes him, and so he performs this ritual,

           a silent, violent prayer to put food on the table.