• andrew jeter

Fried Eggs

(from the SLCC prompt: write a poem about a smell that floods your memory every time you smell it.)


Fried eggs and spam

as the sun crests Ajdabiya

and we are flecked with salt spray

from the little waves of the great sea.


Fried eggs and parathas

in a carpark for Centrepoint Mall,

exhaust and beeping cars

wake a lazy Singapore.


Fried eggs and hot summer rain

pull up the smell of black dirt from

a Midwestern city garden

full of roses and hope...


My mother and her Chanel #5

making eggs in Libya

in a cast iron skillet,

sitting on a upturned milk crate

watching the curry bubble,

and waiting

for the chemo to begin.

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