I Find My Mother's Recipe For Chestnut Soup

I found your recipe, mother, more stain than paper, in a plastic
hospice cup. Now your eyes are de-capped chestnuts in a jar
on the draining board. The colour of bruises. I pinned the recipe
on the cork, though I know the steps by heart. As if you taught me.

handle them gently, they will soften over time

I inspect each kernel for a small round hole, big enough for a worm
to tear through the mealy flesh. I drain the jar and think of an ocean.

one part cream to three parts stock 

You measured the days before you could leave me. At three,
a child is old enough to remember the shape of her mother’s face.

store the rest in a cool, dark place 

What if I dug it out? Tore it up? Shattered everything on the checkered
linoleum tiles? On my hands and knees picking glass from the cracks.

now let it simmer gently 

Instead, I press the damp pulp to my nose, as the day begins to forget 
its own face. I inhale its strange, earthen odour and ask why,  

p.s. don’t forget to score the chestnuts—

why did you leave and not come back?

—if something needs to grow, but it can’t, it will explode 

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/1rti9zr/comment/oaeqxae/?utm_source=share&utm_medium=web3x&utm_name=web3xcss&utm_term=1&utm_content=share_button

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/1rtg6sv/comment/oaeppdt/?context=3&utm_source=share&utm_medium=web3x&utm_name=web3xcss&utm_term=1&utm_content=share_button