Investigating the life of things across space and time
Dispatch by decapitation:
A heavy-spined knife
to sever her neck,
slit open her belly, belly.
Remove the guts quickly
and set aside her head,
fins swimming back to the sea;
mouth gasping, gasping.
Crunch through her back bone
And chop chop, skin on,
into bite-sized pieces.
Still wriggling, wriggling
throw into a pan of fresh water.
Rinse hands, knife and board
clean of blood, blood
(if skin has any prior wounds,
wear gloves throughout).
Do not rub eyes, eyes;
dispose of entrails.
Add a splash of malt vinegar,
sea salt and white pepper.
Boil then simmer gently, gently
waiting for the skin to flake
as moths and midges gather, gather
in the growing steam.
Skim and cover;
set overnight in fridge.
Next morning, stir and serve cold, cold
in delicate white bowls
with a cup of sweet milk tea
to wash down the jelly, jelly.
Joseph reaches down and picks up a shell. He hands it to the boy, who is dragging a red plastic bucket across the sand. “Here. What about this one?”
Bill assesses the offering intently. “No Daddy,” he says firmly, “It’s broken here, see.”
It is late when I see you moving into the flat above the pub opposite. Must be past 11, because I hear the doors swinging open, hot blue noise gulping for air.
“And this is the sign for asleep,” says Alison, closing her index fingers and thumbs together in front of her eyes. “Go to sleep now my darling.”
She smooths out the duvet cover with her hands, uncreasing the printed astronaut suit, flattening the stars in their cotton void, repositioning the blue Earth from sliding off the side of the bed. She kisses Bill’s hair, feeling his fragile skull millimetres away from her lips. “Night night.”
“Night night Mummy,” he says.