'Only Three Minutes to Break(up)fast' by Mairead Robinson

You like your yolks soft, pollen sticky and sun-bright runny. I lower them in. ‘Go on,’ I say, as I flip the egg-timer. 

‘It’s just time I need,’ you say. ‘A little space.’

The sands of time spill thin as my voice when I ask you, ‘Why?’

‘Not enough grist,’ you shrug, of our dozen-years love.

‘And her name is?’ I ask. You look away as the boiling water spit-bubbles over gas-jet hiss. 

‘She’s younger,’ you admit, ‘whereas you, you’ve become so hard-boiled.’

The eggs clack-rattle in the pan. I hear a crack, so like a heart, as it splits.