Mike Horan lives with his family in the desert outside Palm Springs, California. He teaches elementary school during the day, writes and does dad stuff in the evenings, and practices kung fu in the spaces between. His work has appeared in “Kindred” magazine for Anchor & Plume Press, Mad Swirl magazine, and will appear in Good Works Review later this year.
Memory of Loss
I eat a soft boiled egg
out of an antique egg cup,
part of a pair.
This is the only one left,
the other broken in a fit of rage,
brief and sudden like an ocean squall,
here and gone after you were
here, then gone.
But since you are gone
it doesn’t matter that there is only one.
Sharp crack on the top
carefully peel the shell
a dab of butter
a sprinkle of fleur de sel
a grind of pepper
There is a beautiful simplicity to this ritual
one I learned from a long ago friend
dead now, like you.
Something he picked up in Europe
and passed on to me.
Since I have never been to Europe,
and with dusk approaching never will,
this will have to do.
Swirl toast points in yolk the color of
days that went before, so bright I couldn’t see,
watching dead leaves out a dust stained
sunroom window that lets no sun in,
swirl up from the yard,up and up,
before escaping the whirlwind
and floating down before starting again.
Over and over.