Poetry by Chantal Travers
Without fail, every Christmas Eve
her cracked winter fingers
would peel chestnuts for the stuffing
No matter how much soaking before the roasting
the hard rind of this festive victim would splinter into tiny sharp slivers
making their way inside thinning nailbeds
turning from pink to angry crimson
Without any attachment to this seasonal side
he would tell her it wasn’t worth it
But she refused his suggestion to forget about them
their hearthy scent, this fiery holiday flavour
Salted buttery slugs steeped in her body since childhood
and in mine
Chantal Travers, originally from London, has lived in Hong Kong, Singapore, Beijing, and currently Sydney. She is studying a Master of Arts in Writing and Literature at Deakin University, and she was recently published in Visible Ink. Chantal enjoys Qi Gong, Cacao and travelling but misses English Christmas.
