Cemetery Strawberries
The strawberries taste of dead people.
I imagine, when they burst
with flavour on my tongue,
that I can taste the bone ash
of Mᴀʀʏ Hᴀʀᴅᴡɪᴄᴋᴇ, Wʏғᴇ
ᴏғ Rᴇᴠ. Hᴀʀᴅᴡɪᴄᴋᴇ, ʜᴇʀᴇ ᴅʏᴇᴅ
ᴏғ Wᴀʏsᴛɪɴɢ sɪᴄᴋɴᴇss 1622.
These are best eaten fresh,
warmed by morning sun.
Those that grow above the feet
of Wɪʟʟɪᴀᴍ Bᴜʀᴅᴏᴄᴋ, ᴍᴜᴄʜ ʙᴇʟᴏᴠᴇᴅ:
A sʜᴏᴏᴛɪɴɢ sᴛᴀʀ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ғᴇʟʟ ᴛᴏᴏ sᴏᴏɴ,
flower in April and ripen
in May. These are fruits
of simple pleasures, knowing
only halcyon summer days.
They will become garnishes
for cakes, pavlovas, crêpes.
Beneath the yew, between the graves
of Gɪʟʙᴇʀᴛ Sᴡɪғᴛ ᴀɴᴅ Aʟɪᴄᴇ Sᴡɪғᴛ,
Mᴀʏ ᴛʜᴇʏ ғɪɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴇᴀᴄᴇ
ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴡᴀs ᴅᴇɴɪᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇᴍ ɪɴ ʟɪғᴇ,
the berries flourish late
into the grassy heat of August.
These I gather in a copper pan
and simmer slow and languid
into cordials and jams.
The Swifts understood
it’s sometimes good
to take things slow.
As I wander harvesting,
the scent of scarlet sweetness
clinging to my skin, I wonder
how I will taste when I decay
below the earth; if I will become
strawberry wine, tartes aux fraises,
a moment between friends;
if someone will sit and dream
in the grass above my bones
and feel my heart’s blood burst
lovingly between their teeth.
The First Wives
Sometimes, at night,
in the space twixt light
and dreaming, she returns
to that narrow room
atop the stairs,
behind the door
with the bloodstained
silver key, and listens
to their stories.
First Wife tells her
that long ago she loved
a farmhand who oversaw
her family’s ancient house.
But she had a future
to think of, sisters
to provide for;
an advantageous marriage
seemed prudent,
at the time.
Next Wife tells her
how she ran away
from a father with insatiable
and deviant desires.
The woods welcomed her
until he came,
this cobalt-tinted man
with seductive stories
of warm meals
by the hearthside.
Third Wife tells her
how he visited their village
seeking matrimonial pleasures,
how women stayed indoors
feigning illness or exhaustion;
but he spied across their garden
two beautiful young daughters
pulling weeds between the beds.
Her mother had to choose
one beloved child to lose,
and one to stay.
It’s been so long
since they had anyone
to talk to;
even rats no longer brave
the scent of rot and blood.
She understands.
She tells them stories, too,
of market days and music,
of drinking summer breezes
off the mountainside;
she weaves the taste of sea salt
and the scents of grass and spices
into silk.
They wrap her words around
their gaping scarlet throats
and remember,
for one moment,
the ecstasy of being.
Beautiful and haunting - incredible work. Reading these is like eating dark Callebaut.
read this with my girlfriend and while drinking wine!
my girlfriend says- that first poem was wonderful- and that they loved that last stanza and that it will stay in their mind.
i enjoyed the
"if someone will sit and dream
in the grass above my bones
and feel my heart’s blood burst
lovingly between their teeth."
part!! it was very evocative and thought provoking! another part that stuck out to me was
"It’s been so long
since they had anyone
to talk to;
even rats no longer brave
the scent of rot and blood."
the visual impact on my mind was crazy! i loved this bit.
thanks!
Beautiful
Wow! what a feast of words this was. Thank you.