The surprise
in my mother’s pantry
six boxes of Atora suet
and a drawerful
of cutlery
bent out of shape.
None of it
will ever be used again
by its owner.
There’s a violence to this
tidying away of a woman
not yet cremated.
What is suet?
I mean exactly what is
suet?
Little white maggots
in their primary coloured
cardboard box.
Suet is hard fat
that surrounds cow kidneys.
If you can stomach the idea
suet makes excellent pastry,
works a treat
in jam roly-poly,
steamed puddings and pies—
British stodge
at its best.
My mother was old school
believed all sickness
could be cured
with water
and will power.
Until it couldn’t.
I remember this kitchen
The Archers on the radio;
licking out bowls and spoons.
My mother’s cookbooks
loose spines and recipes that crowd
untasted between the pages.
The fit of old aprons
the shape of a family
swallowed into other lives.
Memory is a fine ingredient in any dish
and that afternoon
I feasted on it.