Photograph by Elina Brotherus
His scent disappeared from the house,
along with his clothes, antiques
and collections of butchering knives.
We sold them all within a week.
Everything with his touch was gone
except for a stiff piece of meat.
He had wrapped it in cling film,
saved, to consume
Now it glares – ugly and raw in the fridge.
Excellent for a roast, he’d alleged,
so I toss it on the table, trim away
the flap, the slack, all that he’d taught me
to chuck. But the knife slips and cuts –
a red flush over his lamb loin chops.
I jab the blade deep in the flesh, over
and over until the stage’s a crimson mess.