Sharing space after long distance
An egg falls from the counter; we say
it’s ok, and grace slips
like albumen between our fingers.
We fumble not to break the yolk,
scoop it whole from the craggy mess of shell
and believe the best of each other.
My voice slips from valley
to valley, I drift from myself
into love like a marine layer
over the coast of this new thing:
egg soaking inseparably
into rented carpet, the dishrag
marking into time the moment
the new becomes ordinary.
ELIZABETH MCINTOSH is a writer and artist living in Belfast where she is studying poetry at the Seamus Heaney Centre. Her recent work can be found in Poetry Ireland Review and Angels Flight Literary West.