This piece is much less slam-esque than what I've been writing recently, possibly because I wrote it around 4 am. I didn't realize how much I missed early morning poetry. Let me know what you think.
Scrambled Eggs
i keep a bottle of st brendan's next to the bed
and take a sip before i go to sleep
crawling beneath the comforter into
the space your body has warmed for me
your skin mixes against mine until
even our toes are tangled
i am glad that i didn't get out of the car
that i ground frustration beneath my feet
rather than letting it build in my belly
you are well equipped with what
we call a woman's weapons:
tears and a tapering waistline
over soft hips and a razor wit
sharpened on sarcasm
and the saddest smile
i loathe your arsenal; i love it
laugh as you cross your swords
beneath my chin, i grin at the thought
that you would cut me, my candle
built of hot wax and a spitfire wick
you push back the night with
the dances of your tongue.
in the morning, you make scrambled
eggs, the way i taught you to
salt and pepper, onion and ham
you do not burn the bottoms,
place it on a white plate without
a garnish; it isn't necessary
i tell you, time and again-
you never listen, you are
so stubborn that my stomach
rumbles at the thought.
i do not think i could've slept
if i hadn't seen you safely home.
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It's a glad thing to be in love, especially to hold on to it at four in the morning, especially when one is a poet.
ReplyDeleteNot an earthshattering poem, but then, they don't all have to be. Pretty, not sappy, homey. I like the repetition of stomachs and the tears and tapers line. The last two lines might need revising, not sure.
Making morning eggs always somehow makes good poetry, or at the very least, poetic moments. I wonder why that is.