It is hard to get at the green kernel of anything.
Most truths do not lie open and ready, most
must be cracked with the teeth:
splintering shell and flaking husks
that lodge in the throat.
We know that the greasy
salted heart of the matter suffers too.
What is edible can be salvaged.
All else is waste.
(All day the secret sat in my mouth
heavy on my tongue, waiting to drop.)

In the dark, watching a glittering tower block
of sugar slowly fall into itself, collapsing
so deliciously into sublime black.
At the last, each crystal submits
to the swallowing tar, as they must,
as they were made to.

But all is not lost.
Shoulder to shoulder, the projection
flickering light and shadow onto our faces;
obscure features now
altered, now defined by the swinging loop
of the video.
(Who can find the pulse of a darkened room,
say for certain that this, yes
this was the exact place and
this was the exact moment-)
We emerge different people.

It is later.
I have dug to the bottom and eaten every one,
my pockets littered with
smooth hulls and grains, dust-
the day almost over, dusk
tucking away the grey skies
and all the city's lights dampened by
mist; it is too cold for this-

But words sometimes spill themselves:

Every year I take out my grief
and shake it,
try it on for size like a winter jacket.
It still fits and its pockets
are overflowing with shells.

Of all the stories we tell ourselves
late at night
before bed, before sleep
speaking solemnly into the dark
There were gales
the night you were born
the family folklore
unpacked, gently handled
exclaimed over again and again
every retelling a buff to bring out the shine-

Yes there are some stories we tell
and others we keep
the deep
hints and murmurs of
What Really Happened.
The indelicate hows and whys
of your sixteen year old self giving birth
on the bathroom floor.
There are more
than two sides to this tale.
More corners, more edges: a prism
reflecting light at any angle.
But all of this was your own making.

Those years were carefully picked over,
censored, books with whole chapters
black struck through.
No, these are not
the halcyon echoes of your childhood-
no gold topped milk, no
reading by the light in the hall.
No cast iron, no Christmas mornings.
No hedgerows, no collecting the hens at dusk.

These are the bitter pips,
the hanging nails and paper cuts.
The inedible core of the matter:
What was said to you was said.
What was done to you was done.

And you
you were always too clever by half
for the skimmed, six-of-one versions
of events,
played out like lazy Sunday morning television.
The truth
is always smaller
and greyer than we imagine. We think
of memories as ribbons tying the past together,
but for you
they are stones filling up your pockets
and every year
the river runs a little higher.

It is a strange thing this, to consider
the world in hasty whirling throes
of autumnal grace, it walks a yellow
train of leaves, swathed in a veil
of misted mornings. The world
is marrying the season.

There is a potent force that gathers
like iron to iron, blood to blood:
it bids me to yield to its altering
wheeling might
purer than light

I have seen the heavens change
and a vapid world, without you in it.

First, garlic.

Dig your nails into its flaking paper,
pink and beige like magnolia petals parched
in the gutter.
Peel back the skin and crush
the weighted bud
with the heel of your hand on your favourite knife.
It has been waiting for this.
The thick expectent smell sits up on the chopping board,
looks up at you like an old friend.
It has burrowed itself into the skin of your hands and lingers there

it will not be washed away, instead
it quietly clings to your fingers, flavouring
letters on your keyboard, the edge of the banister,
every light switch in the house.

The pulped clove is scattered into a scraped frying pan,
your grandmother's; it was never non-stick.
The stuck parts were always the best bit,
and so it goes,
the oil and creamy crumbs find the same spots,
engineered over forty years.
Some were accidents. All were happy.
Yours were ambition-led experiments.
The thumbs in the brown recipe book
were never your thumbs,
the dried-out sedimentary edges
were never your mishaps
but still it is a bible of sorts,
providing answers but never asking questions.

Later after dinner when everything is cleared away
and nobody can tell that you had been cooking at all
bring your fingertips to your nose
and inhale
the remaining relic of your meal,
a letter to yourself,
the end notes enduring but faint
now, lastly
lastly
garlic.