There were four triangles

resting under ice

in my freezer


left there at Christmas

when my sister,

who made them by hand,

went home.


I was prostrate

to listen


that day in the sun

before the grief welled up


and although meditation

sounds like sitting still

my body’s wisdom

turned on the oven


waited for heat


let those four delicacies

warm my kitchen


then my belly.


So when the question arose

that prompted my sobs


knees on the ground


the sweet taste of salt


was already in my mouth


the tears added savour

to unravelled caring


all this love

pointless and deep



and connected.

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