Mae Diansangu (she/they)
what i remember:

sweetness

coke floats guzzled on the front steps,
medicinal lucozade, that fizzing, sugary,


orange panacea, sipped in every sickbed
boiled lemonade to settle a sore tum,

werthers originals, murray mints, sherbert
lemons, soft palms dusted with flour, open and

tender, welcoming me to lick the wooden
spoon.

warmth

the glow of a bar heater impersonating
a log fire, electric blanket and crocheted


quilt sandwiches, pants and vests gently
toasting on the radiator, a steaming plate


of mince and tatties,


absence

the missing kiss i never gave you (i had
a cold, didn’t want to make you sicker).


i held your hand and squeezed, i don’t
remember what i said.

salt

in the old myths, they tell you to leave without
looking back. when i looked back i saw my mum


knowing how to say goodbye, leaning over,
bringing her lips to your forehead, eyes closed,

understanding this was the last time. i didn’t turn
into a pillar of salt,i just felt your sweetness melt


away from the world. dissolving, like the sugar you
heaped into lemonade. a strange alchemy i trusted,

but never understood.

the story of my name

you held me for the first time, where the border is
most porous. i had just come from where you were


heading. i wonder if you asked me for directions.
they gave me your name so we would never lose

each other, so i could remember how i entered this
world. very nearly in the backseat of your car.

one last thing i remember:

you left the day after i didn't turn into salt, mum said
you had waited for me, that you couldn't let go

before holding on to my hand. i think of all the times
i slipped into sleep, knowing you were beside me.

our fingers interlaced, both of us an anchor. a gentle
reminder to the other that we could drift to any plane

of consciousness, and still be tethered by love.
sweetness
warmth
absence
salt
the story of my name
Namesake
photography by Abby Quick