I crack the egg

on the side of the ribbed glass

bowl and watch it swim, then

I send another down

and another, and they

all flirt and play around. Slowly,

they dance around in their

own syrup, the only care

they have in the whole world

being to swirl

and to glisten.


A yolk splits and spills,

bleeding incessantly.

I feel guilty. I have killed

it. The bowl is flooding

with yellow ooze.

Slowly but surely, it is

spreading, covering the

surface of the pool, blocking the

sun, like clouds.

There are unmutilated eggs that

are soft to the touch, and

spring, impermeable, from




They are vibrant little stars

that I can hold, whose

powers are above me, and

will neither harm me nor

help me.

They seem content that I

cannot harm them, but

that’s not my intent

anyway. All I want to do is dip in

with them, swim and

feel lively and bright,

be the color of the sun,

be young and

careless. The only thing

that I look for is

comfort, peace of mind, like

the lazy happiness in

the ribbed glass bowl.


Stop thinking. Stop

thinking. Add

milk. Whisk.


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