There’s nothing tentative about the weather in mayonnaise.
We wind-whip and liaise slicks of oil that rain down
on sun-tinted yolks. There are hails of egg
and flaked fragments of shells
that we whack and crack like Thor’s hammer,
thunder-struck and spilling against sharp-edged bowls.
There are pollen drifts of dry mustard,
moist clouds of garlic perfumes,
and spritzled streams of acidy wine
that curl your tongue back on to itself
in recoiled soured retreat. We whip
mayonnaise into frenzied billowous
pillowous piles of soft mallow mounds,
and then gaze at it in wonder, as there’s
nothing tentative about the weather in mayonnaise.
Poetic Asides, Day 3 – A tentative poem