I always know where to find you tightly packed away in a dusty chest at the far end of things that didn’t go to plan I still recall the view late at night and yet the room is a distant blur of nylons crisp cider and munchies our hunger was insatiable nourished finally by the morning breakfast and then, you fell beneath the stampede of regret? Or panic perhaps? And so the tide washed away the scent and you shuttered down the doors, absentmindedly hitting like from one year to the next as you wander through your days.
He stroked tangles into her once luscious mane,
and peppered it in the muted hues of time.
He smoothed the years across her brow
and etched his hate
within her blunt laughter lines.
He left a thesis of his dysfunction written between the grains of her invalid groin
and ringed the spoils of her scars in red ink.
He left her skin bare of kisses, of love,
of exploration or pleasure
he tamed the primal beast
he groomed her into silence
then gave her a mirror
I looked for the stars in an empty sky, then I see them twinkling in your precious eyes. I looked to the world for beauty unseen I find it right there in your fearsome belief. I looked in the faces for pure kindness you see, then I saw it was all that you were able to be. I looked to the universe for a reason to see, and the universe gave you, to me.
I remember a time when all I could cook was toast. At the very most. toast and jam. Which pleased my elders, As they flew down memory lane. Karen Ann bread and jam. It’s all she ate then, It’s all she eats now.
I remember a time when It was you in the kitchen, Bitching, because it was never me, I used to run and flee when the pans came out and our dad would shout.
I remember calling you up, to find out how to bake a potato, Yep, a potato. Because I didn’t know. And how to make cup cakes too. . .
At first, she, would make me Rhubarb crumble to take home, I certainly never moaned. Dad fed me at every opportunity, Always ringing to see whether i was free.
Then I realised I missed real food, I missed my Dads dinners. I missed vegetables, bolognaise, I missed that the most. My Dad made one of which to boast.
So I set out to cook didn’t use a book. There was always the chip shop, If it came out a flop.
I remember a time I tell my daughter, as i take fruit strudel from the oven turning cheesy scones, A quick stir of the thick tomato sauce speckled with basil. . . I remember a time when your Grandad let me be, so I could play, till the day that I was ready. I remember a day when I couldn’t cook, not even with a book.
Skin wore the essence of summer, Kissed by waves, embraced by currents A taste of salt and golden glitter. Hair a tangled web of curls Yellow weaves of Destiny ocean eyes deep and fierce. Those days were our making, Druid souls seeped in Poseidon’s kingdom. Bare foot stamping our mark upon this world, etched forever into spirits energised by Helios, soothed by Selene caressed upon those shores by the oceans ebbing love.
Slowly it falls into oblivion smashed glass shattering memento. A brief pause when it hits. The cursed pleasure of karma. The jar becomes my integrity Piercing decades of time, the coffee grains, my dignity spilling openly at his feet. I count my blessings looking at the tattered remains of myself, it could have been worse. He bent to gather the shards of glass. It could have been tampons. That look, the one that says twenty years and still she’s as clumsy as ever. . . too late, the look lost now among the poetic irony of a dropped jar of coffee.