Spanakopita

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

 

lonely

and connected.

This entry was posted in Poems. Bookmark the permalink.

Comments are closed.