Last Night
Jessica Bates
My son helped me
crack eggs and mix them
for a quiche, and a plane
flew so low and loud that
crack eggs and mix them
for a quiche, and a plane
flew so low and loud that
it made me stop and think
of war. Of mothers trying
to feed their children with
bombs flying through the
sky. Briefly I wondered if
this would be it, the end,
with a period after, eggs
runny and raw, the bright
yellow yolk and our blood
painting the kitchen walls.
Not last night. The plane
was not a bomber, just a
low-flying airplane, and the
quiche cooked and was good,
but my son didn’t eat any.
In bed I couldn’t sleep, I just
thought of my body flung
over my son’s body, a last ditch
effort to save him.
of war. Of mothers trying
to feed their children with
bombs flying through the
sky. Briefly I wondered if
this would be it, the end,
with a period after, eggs
runny and raw, the bright
yellow yolk and our blood
painting the kitchen walls.
Not last night. The plane
was not a bomber, just a
low-flying airplane, and the
quiche cooked and was good,
but my son didn’t eat any.
In bed I couldn’t sleep, I just
thought of my body flung
over my son’s body, a last ditch
effort to save him.
Jessica Bates writes poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction, and lately her work explores the paradoxes of parenting. Jessica lives with her husband, two sons, and two dogs in Tennessee.
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