Eggs

Audrey Diggs

Paper-thin,

Paper-thin,

like an origami sphere

of recycled

Washington Post

paper,

with eraser marks.

Paper-thin, not flaky

though—more like

keratinized skin

that is scraped from

a palm, and folded,

like an origami sphere:

little, and strong.

Little, but many.

Like a stack of

computer paper jammed

in an Amazon-ordered

office shredder, when

the metal tongue stops,

and a click starts.

As heated metal

Reaches fever-pitch

And sleeps

Little but many

together like paper,

nested in oblong

cases which are strong

like stacked paper.

Sent to Sunnyvale

to bring Tasman Drive

and all the Sammies

that live there, their strength.

Little and strong.

Little, but one.

Skyward first

somewhere in Sunnyvale

in God’s palm. Earthbound

later in His hand.

Out of the blue, and

into the black. An eggshell

splinters into salmonella

dust, as the mucus center

flies in a parabolic toss.

Little, but one,

One egg, and one pan.

A palmful of spinach,

and melted store-brand

Cheese in a dying microwave.

Little, one, and done.

Undead bristling in oil

like hair in highway wind,

baggy tee shirts

strung up to dry.

“Murder She Wrote”

she thought, she did

Undead cooking in

hydrogenated magic

with a jaundiced eye watching God.

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