Libby Sommer: ‘The Cellist’, ‘His Coriander’ and ‘Quarantine’

Quarantine

But there still are the other things—
water’s rhythmic tumble
over rocks,
the gentle hush of wind through leaves—
we celebrate
in solitude.

    Libby Sommer

His Coriander

Flourishing above the planter box, it’s ready for harvesting.
I snip the curling tendrils with their skinny stalks,
hearing the clean snap of stem from dense green foliage.
At the end of a rain-filled night, the earth smells heady.
He took his suitcase, his cello, and his sheet music.
He left the fragrant coriander seeds,
said, Tending a relationship is like keeping a plant alive.
So I’ll take this herb
inside to the kitchen and chop it.
I’ll disperse it piece by piece with my hands,
the longed-for exotic spice of citrus and curry.
I’ll be forever grateful for escape,
from my infatuation
with coriander.

Libby Sommer

The Cellist

I was grudgingly ancient. Not older, wiser and ancient. But easily recognisable as ancient. Skin was the culprit—the human body’s largest organ. I had…