Posts in Poetry
This Breakfast

This Breakfast

 

In honour of Gerry I invent a new breakfast.

A fried egg, bacon and warm spinach salad.

It took me several tries to get that order right.

Did you say a warm spinach salad? Feh.

With a fried egg? A warm spinach, egg,

and bacon salad. A warm spinach, fried

egg, and bacon salad.  An mmmm fried

egg and bacon salad. An mmm fried egg

and bacon and warm spinach salad.

What I wanted was greasy, salty, green, limp,

and fresh, with vinegar, and two kinds of toast,

one grainy, one smooth like challah but more brioche,

with peach and orange marmalade I made.

Three mugs of tea. No four. Dark

chocolate biscuits for dessert. Dessert

for breakfast. Pablo Neruda said, I confess

that I have lived. So would Gerry.

It was a lazy Susan kind of mind, wanting to

put together whatever wanted to go in the bowl

and my mouth, with a bit of vinegar, as I said.

It was exactly what I wanted, which delighted

me as I'd stopped trying to make it work.

Just eat, Gerry said.

After the funeral, I felt like someone took

a gun and blasted it through the part of my brain

that makes sense. It was left raw, like egg.

Ok, egg. Bacon. Ok. Greens. Ok. Jam! Yes.

And imaginings of Lorraine cooking with me,

and Gerry sitting, and I have no idea if he likes

any of this, but to stay true to the process and its shtick

in the service of a mission that holds in its mouth

the names, and imagined wants of others, as much

as one's own taste buds, is, I think,

just what the man ordered.

 

 

Ronna Bloom, The More, (Pedlar Press, 2017)

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