You may recall that I was recently inspired by the artwork of Niki Hare. These three pieces are the result. The words are based on a poem I wrote called Egg Salad. You can read it below.
It’s not normal
to cry over an egg salad sandwich.
You don’t need to tell me this.
I remember watching his tattoo
as he cracked five eggs,
each shell shattering itself
again and again
on the tips of his fingers.
He wasn’t wearing a shirt.
I had red lipstick and cleavage,
both a little too much in the bright
light of the kitchen.
We were still drunk
with the power of youth,
and didn’t even suspect
the devastation to come.
There was no way to see
waiting quietly beneath his skin.
There was only my awareness
of his stark beauty and the fact
that I’d never before eaten
which astonished him
This astonishment explains why
we two left the party,
boiled water in a stranger’s kitchen,
then spent the next seven years
loving each other almost to pieces.
In case you’re wondering –
no, it wouldn’t work out.
But every time I have egg salad
I see him there,
and cry over those five dead chickens.