You mix rice flour and cornmeal in a bowl,
add walnuts, sultanas,
cut baking paper. A goatherd passes outside
with his flock; the days are short.
You take a handful of dough,
place it into a makeshift foil cup.
I remember the furnace,
the white seats, the last days of her life.
I make a pot of tea;
the trees are shrouded in mist.
A loose thread on your jumper,
flour on the floor.
Your mother, now ash.
The tomatoes in her garden, the steep stairs.
You hand me a muffin,
tell me it has little taste,
that you forgot to add apple, cinnamon.
I taste the muffin;
it reminds me of the carrots we ate in Albania,
how they still had tops,
that we cooked them in our soup.
I sit by the window, watch a dog bark,
the goat bells gone.
Ion Corcos was born in Sydney, Australia in 1969. He has been published in Cordite, Meanjin, Wild Court, The Sunlight Press, and other journals. Ion is a nature lover and a supporter of animal rights. He is the author of A Spoon of Honey (Flutter Press, 2018).
Latest posts by Ion Corcos (see all)
- Plum Jam - 21st August 2022
- Bakery - 11th March 2022
- Walnut Muffins - 19th November 2021