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Mama Mada
Frozen Food
by Do ireann Ní Ghrío fa
In the frozen foods aisle, I think of him
when I shiver among shelves of green flecked
garlic breads and chunks of frozen fish.
I touch the cold door until my thumbs numb.
Strangers unpacked his body in a lab
and thawed his hand, watched long-frozen fingers
unfurl one by one, until his fist finally opened,
let go, and from his grasp rolled
a single sloe,
ice-black with a purple-blue waxy bloom.
Inside the sloe,
a blackthorn stone.
Inside the stone,
a seed.
Standing in the supermarket aisle,
I watch my breath freeze.
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