Pickled by Janis Tan

Pickled
by Janis Tan

P
 l
  u
    n
     g
      e
       d

     straight

i
n
t
o

a pickling solution of sadness
and
grief,
disbelief,
anger
and more grief,
Incomprehensible.

Dim.

Soaked,
The salt of sadness
Seeps in,
Bites,
Penetrates.
The wash of grief
Surrounds,
Drowns,
Reverberating.

Time
ticks
         by.

E
 x
   t
    r
     a
      c
        t
         e
          d,

I surface --
Dripping brine,
Salty and cloudy.

Light seeps through.

Taste:
Mellow,
Uneven,
A bite of sadness,
a hint of bitterness, still.
A fleeting sensation of sweet,
Almost discerned.

Bite:
Not too soft,
Not overly hard,
But,
a
satisfying crunch.
(A little giving in,
a little softness,
-- a nuance of acceptance,
perhaps?)

A whiff fleets by ---
    reminder
of
a soreness,
hand goes to
heart.


Pickled in a brine of
grief.
Emotions of all sorts,
Even beauty.

Now,
I am the brine,
and more.

Bigger than the parts,
but
never
whole.

:::
  
about the piece.
In Janis' words, "Never been a good poet, in fact been explicitly told by an editor to 'just stick to prose' but a visual hit me while scrubbing the dishes and I gave in to it, with many apologies to said editor. I find it so hard to 'define' myself as the thread of time unreels, and even harder after sweet Lyra Phoenix was safely born a year ago. This is an attempt to find the edges."

about the poet.
Janis Tan writes on Ferdinand's Gifts. She is still trying to put together the puzzle of her life after her son Ferdinand died, but there is always a missing piece.