{ landed in a very common crisis. }

[delga]

The afternoon shift was indeed deathly but was made amusing by two things: firstly, the ever-changing weather forecast (thereby fuelling nearly every conversation I had this afternoon, and yet still managing to provide variety) and secondly, the Good Friday rush for Easter eggs and hot cross buns.

At one point hail was bouncing merrily down the street. Oy.

--

Numpty that I am, I left the house at 1340 with only my keys. I was all, pfft, why be burdened by the weight of materialism? Who needs a handbag? Who needs a mobile phone? BE FREE, MEISHA, BE FREE OF YOUR EARTHLY TIES.

Of course, being free of earthly ties meant that I was also free of a staple of British outdoor clothing, namely: MY BROLLY. I'm such a moron.

So I spent an hour at my aunt's waiting for the sky to clear a little. I played with Baby Cousin, ate a slice of home-made Victoria sponge, and watched as my aunt prepped some seriously delicious-looking roast potatoes. When I left it was dry, but my aunt made me take her coat. Good thing too because being free of earthly ties is synonymous with being shit cold.

--

A friend of mine just sent me an Easter email. She— look, you know you get those adverts where someone is talking and then half-through someone dubs over them in a blatantly other voice? The email is just like that. Except my friend was dubbed by Metatron, the Voice of God on earth. (If Alan Rickman had delivered the email, I'd have had a significantly different opinion on the matter.)

I appreciate the sentiment, but I also feel like... she knows that I don't believe. If I were heartless I'd email back all, "Hi! Happy Easter! You misspelt 'judgement'! Love, M!" but I'm not that sort of bitch any more, and she's well-meaning at the least.

--

Have another poem. This one is earthly in a crass way that I think is marvellous.

The Cinnamon Peeler
by Michael Ondaatje

If I were a cinnamon peeler
I would ride your bed
And leave the yellow bark dust
On your pillow.

Your breasts and shoulders would reek
You could never walk through markets
without the profession of my fingers
floating over you. The blind would
stumble certain of whom they approached
though you might bathe
under rain gutters, monsoon.

Here on the upper thigh
at this smooth pasture
neighbour to you hair
or the crease
that cuts your back. This ankle.
You will be known among strangers
as the cinnamon peeler's wife.

I could hardly glance at you
before marriage
never touch you
--your keen nosed mother, your rough brothers.
I buried my hands
in saffron, disguised them
over smoking tar,
helped the honey gatherers...

When we swam once
I touched you in the water
and our bodies remained free,
you could hold me and be blind of smell.
you climbed the bank and said

this is how you touch other women
the grass cutter's wife, the lime burner's daughter.
And you searched your arms
for the missing perfume

and knew

what good is it
to be the lime burner's daughter
left with no trace
as if not spoken to in the act of love
as if wounded without the pleasure of a scar.

You touched
your belly to my hands
in the dry air and said
I am the cinnamon
Peeler's wife. Smell me.

as if wounded without the pleasure of a scar. Permanence of touch (touch that is fleeting, momentary) is perverse in a lot of ways. Scarring, biting, bruising, marking: branding. Laying claim. And yet this is beautiful - cinnamon and saffron, and a very rich world of existence.