Breaking The Yolks

Breaking

The Yolks

Grandma struck a match

to light the burners

of her old white stove

bent, apologetically

hefting the cast iron skillet

onto

blue flames

each of her eggs a distinct

shade

of brown

she made

two plates of toast:

one burnt

(for father)

one hardly melting

its butter

(for mother)

and brother and I

chose then and there our

genetic allegiance:

burnt or buttered

we all had fried eggs

but I was the one

to ask Grandma to break

my yolks

fry them hard

she hesitated

fork poised over

seamless golden eyes a shame to

blind them

a mistake, perhaps

but then

her skillet had room

to accommodate

us all

and she did it