The roadside signage in the midst of thorn townBoasts of “strawberries grown from the heart”I think that I, too, have grown things behind my chestVillage greens and romantic fruits all coming from family homes
Better still, there are Oranges in Europe andGrapes in South Melbourne andA man from the Northern suburbs with a belt thatWears studs and a tattoo I know better than toQuestion, whoOffers me a coffee with half a spoon of sugar. ItIs sweet in uncomplicated waysBitter coffee, sugar on the top,
One body in Christ has never especially made sense to me;I do not feel holy, I haven’t looked for the steps behind me.My Grandmother believes, and she believes we eat him wholeIn that coffee I wonder if there’s a glimpse of what she tastesTwo pieces as one; mixed in substance but not flavour
And maybe there are complicated ways, after all
Other stores in other places mix pumps ofCaramel and HazelnutAnd Peppermint andPumpkinAnd all sorts of things that make one messOf too much flavour, but not enough to hide the shake
My grandmother pauses with a spoon of coffee grounds thatWould taste better than any pumps, any sugar, any personShe has forgotten the mug againShe has forgotten the steps between the kitchen and her tableShe has forgotten why she has forgottenWith silence, my mother takes a mug from a cupboard sheDid not grow up eating fromAnd places it beneath that coffee, that spoon
I think that love,is not the strawberries from the heartBut the sign that gives them away.
Photo by Matt Briney on Unsplash