‘Waffles and Strawberries’: New Poetry by Susan Alexander

When he gives me the news, I’m slicing 
strawberries for waffles because lately 
he seems far away and even though 
he’d never ask, I know what he loves.
I’m thinking of my Norwegian grandmother 
who had ten to feed, my mum with seven 
and there would’ve been more if she hadn’t 
persuaded the surgeon to tie her tubes 
when he removed half her ulcered stomach – 
at least that’s how I heard the story.

The old recipe pasted inside
a makeshift cookbook, its spine broken,
loose sheets gathered by a rubber band.

When he gives me the news, I’ve already 
whisked the egg whites, folded their peaks
into batter and ladled it over the checkers.
His bone marrow hatching something 
called blasts which explains why 
he’s so tired. We’ve stopped reaching 
for each other. He says it feels like 
a performance I demand, but it isn’t 
that way at all, just how I blush when 
he touches me with those powerful hands. 

O the strenuous wait! That infinite delay! 
The sudden gold I love to break into 
perfect hearts, sweetness filling each hollow.