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Ellora Sutton





My favourite (only) fact about sewers: The Museum of London has in its collection a cross-section of the 2017 Whitechapel fatberg. It debuted in 2018 with a display called Fatberg! in its honour.


                                          Today’s breakfast:

                                          carrot cake French toast.

                                          Anything can be French toast

                                          if you forget about it long enough

                                          and then soak it in egg and whole milk

                                          and forget about it long enough.


O sweet cinnamon! O

vanilla extract! O sweet

risk of falling apart

in the murky butter O

spitting butter O dark

sequins of burn

O glamourous decomposition!

O sugary resurrection! O

custard! O sweet

falling apart on a

burning tongue!


                                          My grandmother’s kitchen

                                          is an arrangement

                                          of sand-coloured tiles and

                                          a table I could sleep on

                                          like a meringue. I went through

                                          a brief but intense obsession

                                          with meringues after

                                          my mother died.

                                          Watching them bloom,

                                          a PVA howl.


The cupboards are so

depressed and catacomb

with tins of butter beans,

my grandmother’s way

of saying I am prepared

to keep you alive to nourish you

through any nuclear catastrophe.


                                          (I have a favourite hob, therefore I am.)


In Italy there is a museum

dedicated to the evolution

of mining lamps, from ancient

to modern day. I’ve never

been, but I would like to go.

What a shining archive!

What a blossoming boulevard!

What a charm bracelet

I will wear against my fear of flying

which is really a fear

of falling/dying/being alone.


                                          I am a museum giftshop

                                          selling postcards of other

                                          more remarkable giftshops.


My favourite museums include:

- The Vagina Museum

- The Fan Museum

- The Mary Rose Museum

- The Roman Baths (Bath)


                                          I went to a museum once

                                          with a hip-length plait

                                          in a glass case and I said

                                          Mother?             Mother?

                                          my face a paled xerox

                                          as in a train window,

                                          a stream of censusness

                                          and I the groping willow herb

                                          or accountant

                                          pretending to sleep

                                          drooling on my girl-shoulder.             


I enjoy baking

because I am

bad at it and

I need a space

to be bad.


                                          Are mouth and mother etymologically

                                          linked? I hope so. I hope so badly.

                                          For the sake of this poem

                                          Google does not exist.

                                          No calculators allowed in the exam hall.


From The Vagina Museum

I learnt about Sheela Na Gigs

stretching open their stony vulvas

like the rubbery mouths

of Scooby-Doo monsters.

So toothed with calcified semen

the Devil evaporates in a terrified puff

of pre-cummy smoke. Vulvas

raw as purifying flame.

I wear one around my neck

on a black cord, an apotropaic gift

from my maternal aunt.


                                          Mother. Mouth, as in: river.

                                          River-mouth. River-mother.

                                          Mouther. Mother. See also:

                                          museum, mausoleum, mourn,    

                                          mucous, marrow, tomorrow, mourning.

                                          See also: moth, motorway, to mourn.


A girl I knew at uni

slid into my Insta DMs

this morning to tell me I give

big Jurassic Park energy.

I don’t know what

that means exactly but

I am ready.


                                          I am ready for something new.

                                          To die again, freshly.

                                          To make a souffle

                                          and mean it.


Anything can be soft

if you are simply willing

to wait.            


                                          Yes, Mother – 

                                          I am ready.

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