Tuesday, November 1, 2022



To Die For


“We are what we eat”, I’ve heard it said and,

dipping delicately into your head, I feel your artistry

swimming through my veins.

Your brain is such a savoured treat, with basil pesto and

peppers, sweet basil and some sage.

It may really be an age before I find

another quite such beautiful mind upon which to dine.

I energise my palate with chardonnay,

oaked, of course, for its nutty, butter is

needed to set the sauce in which your eyes are jellied,

so there is no waste. I see the flavours wash away

the rather glassy shine.

Pupils always were a favourite appetiser of mine.


I view with renewed zest the soft pillows which once

framed the resting pink hollow of your mouth, disguising the

acidity of your sharp, now removed, tongue.

I have sung praises, since tasting that hardened muscular

organ which I doubted I would, but, kissed with caramelised

onion and celery diced, sautéed delicately and thinly sliced

it has given me pause in culinary awe, to think that a part so

maligned can have tasted like more.


The requiem is sung, the tapestry of skin is

hung, the bones are cast. Such a fine repast I

have made of one by whom so many were

betrayed, that I declare this final rich and robust

flavour is a little sweet, a touch too tart,

yet I am certain that I saved the

best till last as I wolfed down, hungrily,

your heart.




In your quiet, golden way

you stayed resolute and uncomplaining.

Your everyday affection returned to

you in touch and speech was still sustaining,

until your organs, secret repositories of

silent, creeping death gave in.


Thin and weak, you still stuck by me

like glue, my brighter, better part,

even when I could do nothing for

you except break my heart, handing you to kind men

in white coats who injected you again

and again, trying to find the charm to

heal your invisible harm.


My arms drooped with emptiness as I watched you fade away

In a sterile unfamiliar place,

the sadness on your beautiful face

ate at me like acid on my soul.

In desperation they cut a hole in

your body which had seemed so strong

and found the killer hiding for so long

in your kidneys.


I was not with you as you were already asleep

when they gave you your ending, but that day cuts deep and

still, over a year past, my bruised heart is not mending.

With watery vision I see your loyal face, your noble spirit and

powerful grace and the thought that stays

is your burnished plume waving at me in greeting

across the ends of days.




CATHERINE BUSCH EBERLE: Catherine is an academic, a developer of educational material and editor and proof-reader. Having spent many years polishing her love of language and sharpening her skills on the opposite end of writing, she has recently ventured into the creative sphere which has long been her passion. Her favourite form of writing is poetry although she is also rather fond of dabbling in flash and short fiction. Her WIP is a psychological action novel. She currently lives and works in Durban, South Africa and is married with two daughters. Many ideas and dreams are nurtured while running trails or in and around her home area.

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