This poem is taken from Stand 231, 19(3) September - November 2021.
Two Poems
Cooking omelette for Stalin’s daughter
There is no whisk. I use a fork.
The kitchen, in the Elizabethan wing
smells of mould. I fold the mess
of eggs, sprinkle chives and salt.
...
There is no whisk. I use a fork.
The kitchen, in the Elizabethan wing
smells of mould. I fold the mess
of eggs, sprinkle chives and salt.
...
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