The suet inheritance

The surprise
in my mother’s pantry—
  boxes of Atora suet

and a drawerful
of cutlery
  out of shape.

None of it
will ever be used again
  its owner.

There’s a violence to this
tidying away of a woman
  yet cremated.

Little white maggots
in their primary coloured

suet is hard fat
that surrounds cow kidneys.
If you can stomach the idea

suet makes excellent pastry,
works a treat
  jam roly-poly,

steamed puddings and pies—
British stodge
  its best.

My mother was old school
believed all sickness
  be cured

with water
and will power.
  it couldn’t.

I remember this kitchen
Woman’s Hour on the radio;
  out bowls and spoons.

My mother’s cookbooks
loose spines and recipes that crowd
  between the pages.

The fit of old aprons
the shape of a family
  into other lives.