Boiled
You had a boiled egg
that morning,
barn fresh.
Cradled
on a careful spoon
into a vinegary sea,
you crushed the top,
scraped it out,
and when I looked away,
for just a second,
you played your trick,
flipped it over.
The shell intact,
the pale curve,
the sweet, smooth oval
bone white,
complete.
I feigned bafflement.
Ruffled your fine, blond hair,
kissed your head as you left,
but never straightened
the sock that slumped,
soft and crumpled,
around one bony ankle,
white as the morning ice.
Melanie Whipman is a PhD student and Associate Lecturer at
the University of Chichester. Her work has been broadcast on
Radio 4, and published in various anthologies and magazines.
Her short story collection will be published later this year by Ink
Tears in 2015. You can find her at www.melaniewhipman.com.