Poems by Cassandra Atherton and Paul Hetherington

 ELIOT’S LAGOON

1.

Midwinter and the sky darkens early. Viv sits in the light of 

her computer screen and begins a playlist of cooking shows, 

travelling around the world from her kitchen table. She 

watches YouTube videos of Roman recipes and Venetian 

specialities, bookmarking each. Tom will visit tomorrow, 

bring news of his travels, and she’ll make Cacio e Pepe, his 

favourite meal. “We’ll eat it in Italy,” he’ll say before he 

goes, as he has so many times. A travelogue about Venice 

sinking into its lagoon cascades onto her TV screen.

2.

Tom is late, saying, “I always feel like drinking when I’m 

with you.” Viv opens a bottle of red she was given at 

Christmas and runs two dusty wine glasses under a tap. The 

water creates a pale circle of dirt in the bottom of the 

glasses and she dries them with the corner of a tea towel. 

Tom hands her a package, saying “open it now”, and she 

pulls a rhinoceros foot from blue tissue paper. “I found it in 

a small antique shop,” he laughs, sipping the cabernet 

sauvignon doubtfully. She asks how long he’ll stay and he 

says, “a week, assuming that’s all right with you”—sipping 

again, like a bird dipping its beak into a Serengeti pool. 

“The black rhinos are gone,” she says abstractly as he 

positions the foot on the mantelpiece above the fire.

CLOUDS IN MY COFFEE

The barista serves lattes and hers has a white swan floating on the 

surface, its neck curling toward the mug’s handle like a query. His 

coffee is decorated with a circle, like a target, and as he stirs, the 

bullseye momentarily resembles a heart. Her swan dissolves into 

cirrus clouds. He’s talking about the loss of businesses in the 

pandemic and the doubtful health of his aged cat. He reads 

subtitles on the television above her head, complaining about bad 

song lyrics and an ad for home gyms. The waitress brings Black 

Forest cake and she thinks how slowly they used to eat the kirsch-

soaked cherries. The barista brings him a coffee decorated with a 

Dali moustache as customers order fruit-and-vegetable juices with 

improbable names. Swathes of light hit the tabletop. He’s digging 

blueberries from his fruit salad and though he says he likes the 

yoghurt, she knows it’s too sweet for him. His eyes wander into 

her words and their identities stutter. A Carly Simon song begins.

SUBURBAN SUITE

She likes the fluorescent lighting, there’s nowhere to hide 

in its glare. Her skin is blue stripes with a yellow bruise on 

the underside of her arm in the shape of a bass clef, or 

comma. The trolley is tangled up with others in long rows 

like train carriages. They rattle as she takes the plastic 

token from her pocket to free one, its long chain hanging 

from the red plastic handle. She saves the fruit and 

vegetable section for last. She likes the bright yellow 

lemons and waxy habaneros sitting atop her frozen meals 

and microwavable brown rice. Today, the lemons are larger 

than she’s ever seen, and the habaneros bulge misshapenly. 

She puts twelve of each into the trolley, laughing at the 

expression of the woman behind her in the queue. “You’ll 

explode,” the woman says. “Habaneros are good on water 

crackers with boiled egg,” shesays, but keeps to herself the 

small snap-lock bag with chopped habanero in her 

handbag—for all of those bland moments dished up on 

large white plates. “And the lemons are for preserving in 

jars as gifts.” She thinks of yellow mouth-filling slices, and 

of a nestling glass of wine; of her lover’s mouth tasting of 

sour heat.