i am sitting in a darkened cinema
rolling a spiky metal ring
up and down my fingers
pressing in sharp
to stop myself scratching
sigils into skin again
it’s history
soup that has been simmering
through generations of us
driving; i bite hard into the fleshy pad
under my thumb, leave teeth marks
i recall clear imprints on my arm
canines and molars, a perfect set:
my own, sharp then fading over days
to mottled purples and yellows, bruised
echoes i worried at, fingertip pain points
each night after the spices,
shells and bones
have been skimmed off,
it’s canted into waiting children
my edges are murky; flickering images
dark seep into senses
it is unclear who is the daughter
who tripped and who reached out
whose gnarled hand clawed up
the warm aroma of
intergenerational soup becomes
a fug in my every memory.
death rituals are supposed to be
a coming together a farewelling
a holding of space and folding grief
into the every day, tucking it
into the corners of the shuffling
clacks of crafting, slipping it into
cakes, handshakes, solemn hands
on numb shoulders.
instead
funerals flicker on my screen
a parade of pixelated pathos
the lovers children friends left behind
add tears to soup
eulogies and the rending of cloth
the women are taken by cancer
brains breasts ovaries
riddled with it
the men don’t wait for death
but rather engage
trains ropes pills plastic bags
to do the filthy work
it’s all fodder for soup
fragrant, sharp — boiled down
to stock, sticky, pungent
until we add another life
raw
potential
star anise and cinnamon
i had hoped you would
kick the pot over
rather than
kick the bucket
but in the face of the
coming conflagration
you were consumed
23 august 2023
templestowe
for sophie trevitt and fraser brindley