My Brain’s Fried
Yellow tendrils
flayed across a frying pan,
sizzling,
scrambled,
scalding oil
sunk into pale yolk,
blond,
canary-cast,
color and care
stolen from birds
and my brain —
but cream or turquoise,
collections of cracked shells
cannot cancel miracles
nor new life.
2 thoughts on "My Brain’s Fried"
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Oh my goodness, your imagery and language, particularly in the final stanza, are gorgeous! I adore “collections of cracked shells/cannot cancel miracles/nor new life.”
Thank you so much!