sharps (pot au feu)

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