Poetry Friday: I cannot

In her Monday Poetry Stretch, Tricia at the Miss Rumphius Effect challenged us to write a love poem without using words of adoration or affection. I'm not sure I complied, but here I am anyway:


I cannot

Do not fear the poaching of an egg
a recipe begins, and I cannot turn away.

I’ve faced my fear of peaches
(the answer: dare to eat them, every one)

and fear of fear itself
has been worked into my bone

and should I fear the Reaper (seasons don’t)
I can find him on the oldies station now

but of all the things to fear, I never dreamed to fear
the poaching of an egg.

Gathering eggs is good but poaching
---as in stealing--- eggs is wrong

and if you have to steal an egg
God help you when you run.

But should you buy them, as I do, 
in a carton, lift the lid

as if canvassing the engine  
of a far too rowdy bus hmmmmm,

and save the rows of bucket seats
for needy seedlings or for mixing

twelve ascending shades of yellow paint.
Watch, if you poach one, how it floats

not just in heated water but on a raft
of sugar-beaded toast, how it melts

the moonscape of an English muffin,
how a poached egg elevates anything,

even a rainbow-sequined 
tube top worn jauntily to breakfast.

But this morning, my eggs are
scrambled. I suppose I did it

because I was afraid. 
An uncooked egg poses 

perfect questions by balancing
in its shell. I do not fear  

the poaching of such an egg;
only the exactitude it requires.

I cannot write a love poem 
about you either.

---Sara Lewis Holmes (all rights reserved)

Poetry Friday is hosted by Kelly at Big A, little a.