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 his mobile number and he had mine, the cellist from the seniors’ dating site. I examined its configuration. Was there a pattern I needed to decode? I hated initiating, but he needed reassurance. It might take him forever to ring. Composing a text, my palms sweated. My heart thumped. Was he okay with texting? I hated my impatience. I hated my unexpected fragility. I sent the text. Yesterday’s meet-up was fun. I’d like to go for a ride on your motorbike sometime, although the helmet will squash my hair.

Then I worried I’d gone too far. My legs wrapped around him on a bike? I sounded like a whore. A desperado. A woman too long without a man. His reply was immediate. Had he been holding the phone in his hand? We can start with a short ride around the block. I’ve got a large helmet. Everyone gets hat hair.

I don’t want you to go on his motorbike, my daughter warned. I’ll go for a ride on his bike, my granddaughter offered. What sort of boat’s he got? A tinnie or a sail boat? asked my grandson. I googled: “what to expect when riding pillion”. Hang on. Brace for braking and acceleration by holding on to the rider’s waist. Bikes must lean to corner. Relax. Tyres provide plenty of grip.

We had dinner, exchanged silly jokes, leaned towards each other, went back to my place—and had incredible sex. The sensitivity of a stringed instrumentalist was really something else. If I knew how, I would have burst into song.

Libby Sommer