Illicium Verum*
They’ve learnt to sink to the bottom
Perhaps harvested just before ripened
The gurgles they make rather guttural
Grandpa would scatter it on everyone
—-Spread it on our land
————Acres of it
——–It’s in his re-used glass jar
Full of scorching tea
He could fit 48 in his huge-knuckled wilted hands
Run my polite fingers over them, and it’ll ripple
Pulpy soup coated pericarp are sometimes brittle
Not meant for consumption
I feel guilty not knowing him.
He asks if I’ve eaten today
There’s nothing else to question
Never the aroma filled with compassion filled with home
My teacher says she’s never understood that kind of love
It must be hard showing affection that way
But you don’t know
———————————-And I don’t either
On my rice right now, the last scraps of it in his spice drawer
Grandpa, one day I will ask to learn all your recipes
Nurture them in the next home I’ll live in
Attend the scale-clawed
Brown-scarred
Star-shaped spice
For now
I will accept the fragrant ripples of your love
As it may not be seen or heard
It is tasted
* Star Anise
Penny Dai
Year 13
St Andrews’ College, Christchurch
