Turkish Delight

Would it be right to assume that your favourite sweet is Turkish delight,

because the tart sting at the tip of your tongue is what gives your words their serrated edge?

Or perhaps the powder that dusts your upper lip helps masks the foreign kisses that brush your mouth,

And are gone before you can place the taste you recognise so faintly.

Does mashing the jelly with unarmed gums remind you of the days when being fed made you feel less shy,

And the exotic flavours were airdropped by aeroplanes piloted by a familiar hand?

Is it bold to assume that the purple sheen of a half-bitten cube,

Reminds you of the evening skies from before your sheep became your shepherds,

And when a pink sky at night provided much more certainty?

Because now your life’s distilled into a dusty Turkish Delight tin sat sleepily upon your mantlepiece,

That today holds only loose thumbtacks and stray buttons.

Nowadays the flavours are as disposable as the boxes that contain them,

Yet you recall the taste of each chunk from that tin as one would the scent of their new-born’s head;

One had more of a bite,

One was too heavily coated,

One was just right.

You’ve forgotten and you’re forgetting, but one thing you can be sure of,

Is the delight that comes from sucking on your favourite sweet.

T.T

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