I used to have a way
of dealing with my pain
by sealing it in jars
and sticking it on shelves
just out of sight. But I
soon ran out of storage
space and the glass began
to crack: Agony leaked
out like jam gone rancid.
Canopic vases once
contained the heart and brain
preserved in readiness
for eternal life, while
the jackal headed god
stood in stiff profile for
his portrait on the walls.
Now there is nothing but
dust and mythology.
My grandmother and me
went scrumping and picked plums,
which she boiled with sugar
to make conserve. She wrote
on sticky labels in
her neat hand: Fruit and year.
Poured the taste of summer
into jars and screwed the
lids down tight. Then she died.
