Author: Siobhan Bledsoe

Siobhan Bledsoe is a poet and photographer living in Brooklyn. She has been published in The Quietus, Human Parts, and New Wave Vomit. Follow her on Twitter.


Today I went to watch the water and wondered why I made everything

               so complicated. Maybe I can come back as a boat

               lapping on sunlit water on the first Spring day, waiting to be told

where to go.

on eggs, on depression

“there was a time i couldn’t make an egg,” he said
over a couple Miller Hi Lifes, cheap champagne
resting in the retro bottle, slim necks wearing
black vests fitting for large mouths made, at times, for frowns. she hadn’t showered
in half a carton of days, her hair a place birds would take baths in,
burnt and brown and scrambled. her skin, greasy enough to fry an egg on. if you don’t
act at all, that’s worse than acting the wrong way.
crack an egg against the side of a bowl,
work a fork, make a lather of the mucus.
any plan is better than not having a plan.
always have an onion, a carton of milk.
can you hear the hens howling,
the chickens cheering?
it’s all about the small victories.
it is 9:07 AM. leave the skillet
touting smoke & success behind.
go on. sleep until 2.