Hannah Stone
Eurycleia entertains a stranger in Armley
There’s always stew on the menu,
cobbled together from donated veg,
and – today – plenty of bread.
Bank holidays fuck with your benefits,
so the visitor’s hungry, will consume
whatever’s put in front of him.
Voracious for a listener to hear the tale
oft-rehearsed for deaf ears, he eats and talks.
A steel worker, made redundant,
but not before he’d caught the wound
that scored his face from temple to chin.
The old scar’s as fine as the flattened seam
on a sunflower seed. It moves,
as he chews, and the dip
of his stubbly cheek pulses.
Then cirrhosis, then cancer, then…
I replenish his bowl, pour sugar
into a mug of tea. Belly warmed,
he’s calmer; sits cupping thin hands
round the chipped cup. His cuffs
are glossed with grime; there are spaces
where buttons used to hold things together.
The inches of his healed injury measure
rare gifts of the trust he shares.
Docketed, his meal adds to the stats,
but I keep no record of dirty dishes;
just mix hot and cold water in a bowl,
and, since I cannot wash the feet
of the honoured guest, and rejoice
in secret at the homecoming,
I slide his smeared plates
below the bubbles in the sink.
Hannah Stone, Eunoia Review, January 16, 2018.