Eggs in Lewes

I boil an egg.


The kitchen smells of egg

well, it’s not a kitchen really

          a cooker

          on a shelf

          under a window

          in a hut

          in a garden

          in a village

          in a park

quaint and lovely as those painted eggs we used to get

nested within each other

egg

in egg

in egg

making me the foil-wrapped chocolate at the core

I s’pose.


I can smell the cracked egg as

the poured-away eggwater drains

down the unplumbed sink to

meet the rain-soaked earth.


I can smell the egg’s orange yoke when

I slide away its brown shell.


I tell them I can’t cook.

I lie.

I can boil an egg;

does not the aroma of egg waft when

the door is left open?


I can smell the egg.


I just can’t taste.


You took a couple of my senses with you when you left—

I shoulda checked your pockets,

it’s not like you needed them—

I like to think you kept them

to remember me.

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December 23, 2020, 9:44:17 PM