The evening of the day he died
I ate eggs. I didn’t have to

do that – there was food
on every counter.

But standing there one moment
I just noticed I was

making eggs,
moving them around slowly

in the pan, coaxing them
gently

from one side to
the other. It’s the way I

drove home, too –
blunt; suspended; surprised

to be driving. Later,
I remember thinking that

the house felt like
a wayward womb:

swollen, congested,
purpled with dying;

that something
needed to be broken –

to be spilled.

Kim Triedman was a finalist for the 2007 Philbrick Poetry Award and has had worked accepted by the following publications: The Aurorean, The New Writer, Lalande Digital Art Press, Byline Magazine, Poet's Ink, Poetry Salzburg Review, The Journal, Asinine Poetry, Poetry Monthly, Current Accounts. One of her recent poems was also selected by John Ashbery to be included in the Ashbery Resource Center’s online catalogue.