I put the cold water in the pan
Before drinking myself
The water so cold in winter pipes
And me back from the flood.
So wet my wrinkled thumb
Isn’t even mine, according to my iPhone
I wonder what part of me got washed away
Grief and misplaced lust I pray this week
I had planned to meditate when I came in
I wanted my body to eat my self, in waiting
I make promises on these long runs, OMs
In my bones, not my teeth, dripping clean rain
Instead I boiled potatoes in salt
Wrinkled salt-skin in boiled-dry pan,
Me stripped and towelled and standing in vapour
It could be the seeing myself that has gone
Christopher John Eggett is a writer and runner from Cambridgeshire trying to live close to water. He will send you poetry and literature on a Friday, through his newsletter, Etch To Their Own (https://medium.com/etch-to-their-own) which you can sign up to here (https://tinyletter.com/cjeggett).
