SUMMER 2022 SECOND PLACE
I want grey gravy pouring onto seared brown meat – I don’t care which animal. I want clotted cream on chocolate bunnies. I want peas and custard. I want pavlova soufflé with heaps of stewed gooseberries. I want Turkish delight stuffed with sugared almonds, and Greek delight tasting of Turkish coffee.
I want my mum. I want to sleep without hearing my ears ring or my stomach howl. I want my dad.
Yesterday, we had rice pudding from a tin, like puréed snowdrops coming out of a magician’s hat. The jam on top was red as blood.
Today, we had wet, dusty water.
This morning, I asked her when I could see my friends. It’s strange to think of them that way now. She said they were sick, and avoided my eyes.
Now, I palm through faded cookbooks, weaving together aspic aspirations and coveted coulis. I taste the beef and beetroot with my fingers, and when I close my eyes I imagine the grit stuck to the pages is a scattering of nutmeg.
Later, we will sit in front of the battered CRT and watch a video tape for thirty minutes, the length of time it takes for Thomas to get in and out of danger, and for the generator to run down.
Tomorrow, we will cough to fill in the silences, and when the hum of the lightbulb becomes unbearable, we’ll talk about what dreams we had, surgically excising the painful details like mould off a loaf of bread.
I want that glass bowl, replete with jelly, crowned with ostentatious swirls of whipped cream – straight from the can, what a delight.
I want to take the glass and smash it against the concrete floor, just to have something glittery to look at.
I want that ten-tonne door to open, so I can finally breathe different air.
They say you can’t feel radiation, but I bet I could taste it.
