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Rachel Smith
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the poet
New Zealander Rachel Smith, a chef and Open Floor Movement Teacher, has made London her home. She's had work published in various journals and anthologies, including The North, Magma and The Book of Love & Loss. Her recordings of her text Bed Unbound toured Scotland on a bus as part of the Day of Access. Rachel's poems for iamb are part of her ongoing project, A Manual for Dying.
the poems
We die in stages
Claire wakes us at 6am. She’s already
called Mike, so we all go to your room.
You are still curled up, could be asleep,
except your rattling breath is absent.
We toast you with whiskey as the sun
rises. You are soft dead, still warm.
The undertaker comes after breakfast,
takes you away. You are back early afternoon,
laid out on your bed in your town clothes –
moleskin trousers and Guernsey jersey.
Ben and Penny come in to say goodnight.
Penny says Antone is really dead now, eh.
I know what she means. You were soft dead
before, now you are dead dead.
Firewood
We all knew Dad wouldn’t want a shiny coffin. But the pine ones
are expensive and there’s not much money. So Matt and Mike turn
Dad's woodshed into a workshop, get macrocarpa planks
from the local sawmill, debate the design.
Matt spends three days sawing, planing, sanding, worrying
it’ll be too heavy, that Dad won’t fit, that the bottom will fall out.
He fusses over the strips along the top: Dad was so good at lines.
The morning of the funeral we test it out. Matt gets in and my cousins
and uncles lift, shaking it slightly, laughing in the way you do
when life and death are close. Matt gets out relieved, shakes himself,
speaks at the funeral about Dad’s love of fire, says I’ve built you a coffin
of the finest macrocarpa.
Provisions
Six men – sons, brother, nephews,
old friend – lift Dad from his bed
in a blanket sling, swearing as they carry
this body that does not bend
around corners. There is relief
when he’s in, that he fits.
We put in earth from farms
he loved. Roses, seashells, fern fronds.
A bridle and dog collar.
His radio. Rosary beads.
Niall Fergusson’s 'Empire':
That’ll give him something to argue with.
Jamie makes him his cheese and onion
sandwich. His teapot that drove us
all crazy with its constant dribble
but which we miss as soon
as it’s gone. The half bottle
of Jura from the night before.
Tui sing. Father Joe says a prayer
and the lid goes on.
The men lift Dad into the hearse,
silently. We are bound
in this ancient rite,
where carrying a coffin is still
one of the most sacred things.
Publishing credits
We die in stages / Provisions: exclusive first publication by iamb
Firewood: Magma 75