Mothers Egg Poacher
Blood nests and bowls formed in the pit of my hand, my mothers milky egg poacher, my grandmothers willow and over 500 red/crimson/carmine/rose and ragged lost opportunities and the wilful, perhaps regrettable choices amongst them.
A bloodline had been drawn. Motherhood was finally lost to me. This was a response to menopause, a quiet grief but, some say, a beginning.
Beeswax, oil paints, wire, cotton, willow, a spoon, an aluminium egg-poacher
2018