Let that go.

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.



Egg Salad
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 itselfagain and againon the tips of  his fingers.He wasn’t wearing a shirt.I had red lipstick and cleavage,both a little too much in the brightlight of the kitchen.We were still drunkwith the power of youth,and didn’t even suspectthe devastation to come.

There was no way to seethe son,the daughter,waiting quietly beneath his skin.
There was only my awarenessof his stark beauty and the factthat I’d never before eatenegg salad,which astonished him beyond measure.This astonishment explains whywe two left the party,boiled water in a stranger’s kitchen,then spent the next seven yearsloving each other almost to pieces.
In case you’re wondering – no, it wouldn’t work out.
But every time I have egg saladI see him there,and cry over those five dead chickens.