Eggs Fried by a Friend’s Father

“No toast,” I said, not too hungry.
“Then what will you dip in your eggs?”

But I could not imagine
any dipping into pale rubber curds.

My plate appeared—
cartoon eyeballs,
oil-painted breasts,
silly rounded contrast
so brazenly biological.

Crisped feather edges still sizzling
their minute buttery brownness
surrounding milky, stilled puddles
with their rain-washed marigolds.

He handed me a triangle of wheat.
I watched him rupture his
globule to glossy ooze,
a droplet dripping on its way to his mouth.

I grimaced, mimicked
the crunch and flow—

sunrise thunder,
a goldfinch flock alighting
backdropped by lightning,
a gold, silk ball-gown washed out to sea.

I tried to douse any chicken-y images,
babies in general,
life as its whole,

allow the fatty velvet draping
my tonsils and tongue to be

only morning’s oiled light.
It would be okay.

about the author
Kerry Trautman lives in Findlay, Ohio, and is a founding member of Toledo’s Almeda St. Poets and the Toledo Poetry Museum. Her poetry and short fiction have appeared in various anthologies and journals, including Mock Turtle Zine, The Fourth River, Alimentum, Midwestern Gothic, and Third Wednesday. Her second poetry chapbook, To Have Hoped, was recently published by Finishing Line Press.