Finely Sieved

By Haley Walsh

A sachet of memories
Seeped in boiling water
To blanch,
Leave only scents
And colors
And Lily of the valley
Served with cream
I don’t remember how
Your words were meant to taste.
Thin memories of cherry trees, cold water,
And Black-eyed Susans
Melt like church wafers
On a choir boy’s tongue.
If you were wondering,
Death is served on a small plate
And tastes like voicemails
Left on a landline.