She seals herself in with a barricade of empties –
bottles, twisted crisp packets
lobster shells – and arranges

tiny mad spoons along the top; arms herself with
a cook’s blowtorch
against all the failed brulées. She slinks

listless to cupboard doors, and strings
dishcloths across them, like petticoats, curtaining
loud spices which jostle and noise as they ravish

olive oil, coy and virginal.  But the siren biscuits
sing from the tin, and she plugs her ears with pastry
so she does not hear the hum

of the rising dough she never made
and the quince rotting furiously in the fridge
and the sizzle of tea leaking from the cracked mug

pooling around her as she kneels
to take the lonely sorbet from the freezer
to soften.

And the silent cheese
through the back door

making good its escape.
Cushioned from sound, she hears only
the blood in her ears and her own rupture

as she untwists child-proof lids, and pours
random amounts onto a square white plate
following no recipe, and stirs...

When it is done, she holds the plate
like an offering and
watching the sorbet melt into ash

she tips the caustic cocktail made
from everything under the sink
into her failing mouth.



Morgaine Merch Lleuad