Your aunt’s blind dog Patsy turns corners in your sleep. Patsy felt
her way around, the way an egg will curl against the corner of a pan.
Now you doubt this is your memory at all, embraced and protected
in a thin carton of scrambled images. Move and the egg
spins inside of you. One turn with the spatula and the egg is fertilized
and may or may not marry the toast, since bread is noncommittal like that.
Mom told you this secret as she winked and sang about eggs. You wonder
about the spooky action between you and your mother’s egg
and whether you can present watery quantum physics talk
in a diner or anywhere without sounding ostentatious. You decide
there is no way. The bleak pocked dinge of home grown egg
looks like the surface of the moon, distant as the kitchen
in Kalamazoo which may or may not still be standing, a collapsed star.
The only egg inspired song you’ve heard about is Paul Simon’s
“Mother and Child Reunion,” based on an egg and chicken dish
in a New York Chinese restaurant, far away but coated in shell,
preserved and cradled. But it’s so bleak with the sun dripping within
a gray case of cloud, even with your mother’s sway and pink
formica counter with Hippies Use Side Door over the window.
The oval remains intact as you stare. The pictures sputter.
You think about the gruesome task of separating yolks and pray
this culinary disaster stops. Egg is nature’s perfect food, your mother
told you. She could flip an egg without using a spatula.
Every day was a miracle.