The perfection of four egg halves, which had previously been
two whole eggs, broken open on whole grain toast, hummus,
cilantro, the sting of salt, pepper, hidden red chiles. The morning,
expansive, deceptive winter sunlight warming inside the windows.
I’ll clean them soon, I think, and return to my book – a cataclysmic look
at the apocalypse and a world of rats. I eat my eggs. The three men
with whom I share this space are somewhere behind their closed doors,
and I am alone with the contested floral carpet, the drum set,
the hookah still set up with last night’s coal. I remember the eggs
before I broke them, mysterious and round, one brown, stolen
from my roommate, the other white, the last of my own eggs.
One egg cracked the second it hit boiling water, a filament of space
furrowing inside the shell. But broken open, on the whole grain toast
with the hummus, the cilantro, the salt, I can’t tell which egg is which,
and each bright yolk reveals itself the same.