The roadside signage in the midst of thorn town
Boasts of “strawberries grown from the heart”
I think that I, too, have grown things behind my chest
Village greens and romantic fruits all coming from family homes
Better still, there are Oranges in Europe and
Grapes in South Melbourne and
A man from the Northern suburbs with a belt that
Wears studs and a tattoo I know better than to
Question, who
Offers me a coffee with half a spoon of sugar. It
Is sweet in uncomplicated ways
Bitter 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 whole
In that coffee I wonder if there’s a glimpse of what she tastes
Two pieces as one; mixed in substance but not flavour
And maybe there are complicated ways, after all
Other stores in other places mix pumps of
Caramel and Hazelnut
And Peppermint and
Pumpkin
And all sorts of things that make one mess
Of too much flavour, but not enough to hide the shake
My grandmother pauses with a spoon of coffee grounds that
Would taste better than any pumps, any sugar, any person
She has forgotten the mug again
She has forgotten the steps between the kitchen and her table
She has forgotten why she has forgotten
With silence, my mother takes a mug from a cupboard she
Did not grow up eating from
And places it beneath that coffee, that spoon
I think that love,
is not the strawberries from the heart
But the sign that gives them away.
Photo by Matt Briney on Unsplash
