I made a jelly — raspberry,
put on a load of whites,
concocted a chilli from the remnants of the fridge,
knocked up a healing pot of leek and potato soup
with cannellini beans for extra oomph,
checked in on you: finally asleep.
Day Seventeen of the unrest —
rebellion — revolution in the making.
Two thousand reported murdered.
One execution imminent.
The previous night:
Day Sixteen — telephone lines reconnected.
Images emerging. Body bags mounting.
I’d made Friday Night Burger Night,
even though it was Tuesday,
in a vain attempt at normality.
In the Twelve Day War, some seven months back,
when you were there and I was here,
I danced in the kitchen in desperation.
What had long been predicted
felt inevitable.
But now you are here — I cook instead,
feeding you through the crisis.
Not my crisis, understandably.
Not my land, my kin, my memories.
Standing on the sidelines. Looking on.
Human, nevertheless.
Your pallid face,
short on sleep — short on peace.
Waiting. Watching.
All I can do is feed you
from the
kitchen of solace.
© emma lumsden 14.01.26
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