Love letters served as cake
dropped with care
in a grieving letterbox,
that’s how we really met
through food
in a tastebud language
that spoke when we could not,
that uttered words
in cream
in jus
in slow cooked feelings
accompanied with notes
made from pen
and a text message to say
I’ve arrived
I’m here
check your mail.

When my father died
tears flowed
on juice laden beef cheeks;
when the family fractured
spiced curry relit the fire
with humour-filled fuel;
when our hearts broke
oven baked truffle polenta
sewed them together
with parmesan threads.

When the covid came
so did the keto cake
and donuts
and souffle
and lockdown fodder
served tit for tat
in a numbered black box
held roadside
on a nest of agapanthus.

A constant
quirky discourse
of hand made
flatpack torte
and cauliflower mash
laughing with horseradish
in glass containers
moist from
steamy dew.

That is
until the silence
when language curdled sour
in friendship fury.
Words once weaved
in oozing fromage
fresh from France
stunted instead like stubborn
ligaments in the toughest meat
that no Christmas
no New Year
no summer
could breach.

The mailbox now
sits mute in defiance
at the end of the drive
three months of dead air
yet still I check it for
crumbs of care
from the Swedish cake
I loved the most.
I tried to bake it once
and failed
like talking to myself.

The box of letters officially closed this week
a parent’s life passed onto mine
deceased estate sold
house packed up
address usurped.

I fear our fractured friendship
will never find me
with no forwarding address,
I’ve taken the rosemary we potted
the mint from the shed
a cutting of lemons,
for mint is resilient
rosemary remembrance
lemon a cleanser,
a herb scented road
leading to a new mailbox
ready for roasting
down the street.