Threads of Saffron

threads of saffron

by Lynne M. MacLean

(Content Warning: food)

Monday

I catch your hope for you in the silver bowl engraved with your name.
At the first sign—the golden beads welling alongside your tears,
viscous, heavy—I fetch the bowl, racing
back to place it beneath the gash in your spirit,
catching a sliding ostrich egg yolk of hope, radiating
heat and aroma,
ginger and citrus.
I offer it back but you turn away,
holding closed the wound.

I cover the bowl in beeswax-soaked cloth
for tomorrow.

Tuesday

I warm the bowl of hope over a pot of steaming water,
invoking the fragrance, making the gold
dance and glitter.
The bowl itself is comforting to hold.
But again, you avert your eyes, hands over lesion,
streaming words of cold, misleading logic.
I insert a syringe
into the hope’s self-healing membrane,
withdraw a dram,
express the fluid into a spoon.
I feed you between arguments, drop by drop.
Your colour is back, but you refuse a second spoon.

I defrost a hen.

Wednesday

I simmer the hen with cheerful chunks
of carrots and onion, garlic and celery,
with whole peppercorns, herbs, and a single star
anise wrapped in cheesecloth.
I skim the impure froth, removing songs of broken dreams.
When the whole house exhales aroma,
I sieve the broth, save the fat, reclaim
the meat and skeleton.
At the auspicious, bone-foretold moment,
I slice open the hope, watch it flood the bowl.
Humming lullabies,
I add steaming soup, a swirl of glimmering fat,
and three threads of deepening saffron.
This time, you eat it all, then smile.

                I place the silver bowl back in the chest,
                                                                   next to the one
                                                                                                    engraved with my name.