One of only two things
I inherited from my father
was the way I eat boiled eggs.
Or rather, when I’m done spooning
at the yellow gloop inside,
and the white around the edges
has been peeled clean and gobbled,
I like to flip the husk right over
to the smooth horizon of the shell
and pretend that nothing’s happened.
It used to drive my mother wild:
this tiny memory of him –
thinking I’d not started
when I’d eaten every morsel.
The best was still to come:
now I’d pulled off the perfect trick
I liked to bash it and bash it
until it was smashed away, and gone.
by Rachel Beckwith
The closing date of my monthly food poetry competition is the 5th of every month, or in other words; tomorrow!
Please send in any Food Poems you wish to be entered to email@example.com. The winners get published on this blog so let food be the centre of your poems and send some in!