I never used to like eggs, that conspicuous
breaking and ooze like a cow
being slaughtered in the kitchen
before the steak is served.
And my father wanting his sunny-side-up
which seemed wrong,
like exposing yourself. But I loved to look
at unbroken eggs, I loved
to hold them in my hand and toss them up,
always feeling I knew
how high was too high, always
coming away clean.
Years later I’d discover, through Blake,
you can’t get away clean.
You have to know what’s more than enough
to know what’s enough;
the game I played was a coward’s game.
I liked my eggs hard boiled
at first, then devilled, ice cold.
Scrambled was years off;
breaking and cooking them myself-more years.
One Halloween I stole eggs
from the egg farm, extra large, to throw at girls.
Loving the shape of eggs,
confused by the shape of girls, I loved
to see the egg break
on their jeans, loved the screams and the stain.
Now I suck eggs
after making a little hole in the tip.
I’ve made peace with the yolk.
I no longer think of the whites as coming
face to face with the blind.
I almost can forget how the conglomerates
have made chickens slaves,
the small cages and the perpetual light.
I love eggs now,
I love women; I keep my eggs to myself.
As for the chicken and the egg
I say the egg was first. The egg is perfect.
It always was.
The chicken, like most children, an afterthought.
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