Frying an Egg
By Lily Roberson
The oil splashes up, licking the edge of the pan
Like the ocean carrasses the shore,
And like salt water tunneling into a wound,
The hot spray burns your fingertips,
And you bring them to the comfort of your mouth
Instinctively.
And you miss the way your mom cooks,
Cracking the peppercorn, breaking the shell,
Pouring the salt into her palm before
Pinching it into the dish.
You think of her as the clear turns white,
About how her hair is turning too
And how her face wrinkles when she laughs
And how your mouth is kissing your fingertips
Like she used to when you were a child.
The Trinity Review 