They left me your recipe, mother, more stain than paper,
in a plastic hospice cup. Now your eyes are de-capped chestnuts
in a jar on the draining board.
soaking will take the bitterness away
The colour of bruises. I pinned it on the cork,
must have read it a thousand times,
learned the steps by heart. As if you taught me.
handle them gently, they will soften over time
I inspect each kernel for a small round hole,
big enough for a worm to tear through the mealy flesh.
I drain the jar and think of an ocean.
one part cream to three parts stock
You measured the days before you could leave me.
At three, a child is old enough to remember
the shape of her mother’s face.
store the rest in a cool, dark place
And I could just as easily throw it out. Tear it up.
Shatter everything on the checkered linoleum tiles.
Then there I’d be, picking up the pieces.
simmer but don't let it boil
So instead, I press the damp pulps to my nose,
inhale the strange, earthen odour, while the day begins
to forget its own face. And inside me, the question squirms—
p.s. don’t forget to score the chestnuts
why did you leave and not come back?
if something needs to grow, but it can’t, it will explode
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