a fragment of residue, fractured
at the bottom of a bowl, rubble
with the butt-ends of party chaw.
I know you’ll say that I was the one
who bemoaned the boxes, the labels,
but I’m not even honey-roasted
or maple-glazed. And where’s the sea salt,
the cinnamon, the granola?
I want to be whole again, in my shell
on a tree, eyed by Nubian Nightjars.
Helen Freeman published Broken post-accident in Oman. Since then she has completed several poetry courses and has poems in some online magazines. Brought up in Kenya, she now lives between Edinburgh and Riyadh.