Sometimes it’s enough to know
that a chicken preceded this egg,

that some crossed the Atlantic,
and others, yes, the road. Perhaps

I am too enamored of this fondness
for imprecision, never certain where

evening ends in your latitude,
where morning begins in mine,

but I’ve come to appreciate, late in
life, the finer points of egg cookery,

the beauty of basting with olive
oil, three ways of poaching,

and the tender art of scrambling.
This is of course metaphor, and

not. The truth is seldom so simply
derived. You hold the egg. I

offer salt. Your pan. My butter.
We both bring the heat.



About the Poet:
Robert Okaji lives in Texas with his wife, two dogs and some books. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in riverSedge, Otoliths, Steel Toe Review, Panoply, Posit and elsewhere, and may also be found at his blog,


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