Circe makes a Sunday roast

Circe makes a Sunday roast

Elspeth Wilson
Poetry

Content warning: Discussion of food and eating, mention of bodily injury

Circe makes a Sunday roast 

On Sundays, I roast my pain until it is edible

tucking it beside the Yorkshire puddings 

that I hate – and have been made by my hands for generations

sitting next to beef, not pork;

looking decorative, I sit like a bruise 

upon a morning face 

as you say that you are laughing with me not at me


I often find that men do things at me not with me

now divorces can happen online,

I touch my belly like it is a ripe nectarine 

knowing I will call my daughter Lilith 

and then eat her because to be fresh blood is better than to be roasted

asking myself, can there be any stories if poets’ do not make us weep?

I slough the pain off my insides

laminating it in pastry to feed the hankering mouths 

who see no danger in domesticity.


Elspeth Wilson
Poetry
Elspeth Wilson

Elspeth Wilson is a writer and poet who is interested in exploring the limitations and possibilities of the body through writing. Her poems have been nominated for Best of the Net and commended in Young Poets' Network challenges and her prose has been shortlisted for Canongate's Nan Shepherd prize and Penguin's Write Now Editorial programme. Elspeth is currently working on her debut collection and also regularly facilitates accessible creative workshops. When she isn’t writing or reading, she can usually be found near the sea or spending time with her elderly dog.

Of anger. Of fear. Of betrayal. Of clinging. Of longing. 

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