The Butter Dish
It took me by surprise, that simple glass butter dish
with its leaf motif on the lid.
Hidden in the back of the fridge behind the jars –
relishes, chutneys…
placed there by your holy hands.
Like a block of ice.
I put it on the table and shivered.
And I saw you at the market stall where you bought it
and brought it home and buttered scones
hot from the oven.
Every now and then I search among the profane pots
hungry for something sacred.
I whisper your name.
It seems that I keep memories of you on ice
when that dark chamber is opened to the light.
Still Life
(In memory of my brother Michael, who had Down’s Syndrome)
There’s a half-worked canvas sitting on my easel.
A bowl of fruit – green grapes, oranges
on the kitchen table’s
blue and yellow chequered cloth.
Brushes standing in a vase
like a gang of punks with their hair dyed,
loafing in the evening light…
half-squeezed tubes of acrylics,
some still wearing their caps…
a rainbow of water jars and a psychedelic palette.
All are where I left them when I got the call.
I wonder if my suit still fits.
I search for a black tie
and polish my shoes.
“Sisters sit, brothers stand, eldest first, youngest last…”
He rattles off the protocol like a prayer.
My sister’s scarves add blue and red to the monochrome scene.
His tie is green.
Tearful neighbours, friends, and cousins,
a stream of colour
flowing past the display in the centre of the room.
Still life in watercolour.
And my jaded memories are like brushstrokes
in faded pastel shades, as unfinished as your days.
Blushing Moon
She was the sun in my world,
but her glory hid the stars.
I mourned for the departed light
and feared the darkness of my heart.
Then you came blushing into my night
and spread before me
the constellations of the sky,
illuminating pathways to another destiny.
And I have come to love
the beauty that you etch in silver filigree.
The Dark
The storm brought sudden darkness.
I searched in a bottom drawer for candles.
You always knew where they were kept –
rummaging among the memories of scented things.
By the flickering light,
I wrote a poem in the notebook that you gave me –
words you will never read.
From the kitchen window,
beneath a fragment of moon,
I saw the crimson roses in the rain
and wondered why they bloomed in vain.
Wax tears fell hot on the kitchen table in scarlet drops.
In my Gethsemane, I prayed
that God might take away this bitter cup.
Forbidden Fruit
In the lingering light of a September sky,
we ate blood-red oranges,
peeling each other with our eyes,
while the citrus sun bled into the night.
Her kisses cool on my hot skin,
my heart burning within.
The pale pulp of her nakedness,
sweet as forbidden fruit.
In the morning, she sat in a satin gown,
sipped from a mug printed with a metro map.
The dripping tap, a metronome,
marking the rhythm of the day
until the sun went down.
She pummelled in pestle and mortar,
lifting her black olive eyes to me.
Anointed the lamb with mustard and honey –
conveyed to the table, ceremonially.
We ate at that altar together,
salad bejewelled with
pomegranate seeds.
She fondled a bottle of Prosecco,
effervescent into flutes.
And we got drunk on each other,
exploring volumes of truths.
