There are endless empty jars
in our cupboards under the counter
where the four-slice toaster lives.
They are the headstones
of raspberry jams, jalapeños,
gherkins, olives and a yogurt
too fancy for me. I think
about pickling eggs or onions
and the smell of mustard on a pork pie
designed for sharing on my dad’s plate
opposite the snooker on a Sunday night.
Maybe I’m brave enough now
to put a pickled egg in a packet
of cheese and onion crisps.
Maybe I’m brave enough now
to stop thinking.

© Carl Burkitt 2022