(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.