fried egg sandwich

granny turns on

the stove clicks

a spark

a blue flame flickers

in the cold morning air

she points to a cupboard behind me

with squishy ripe raspberry lips

and says,

 

“get the frying pan

the big black one

watch out

it’s heavy

it’s iron”

 

her generous mouth wraps around every word

and breathes heavy

asthmatic squeezing

little sacks in lungs

she reaches into a waiting refrigerator

in one hand a stick of butter

a brown oval egg in the other

she passes a butter knife to me

slice a chunk off the yellow hard brick

it sizzles

beads dancing along a slick black rink

 

she passes the egg

cold with an odd weight

picture in my head

a buoy oddly bouncing in water

crack it along the thickness of the rim

it breaks open into a rigid crevice

half way across spilling

a gooey, slippery white liquid

down the side

it sticks

turns white

 

grab granny’s wooden spatula

it has a groove in it

a grip

a hand’s home

 

poke a hole into the yellow bulging eye

it erupts

a volcano’s golden lava

sprinkle salt

it crystallizes and sticks to the surface

sprinkle pepper

black specks on gold

let the egg crisp brown

around the edges

slip under it’s body

flip over

it sizzles and pops

edges of my lips pull away

quick with pride

grandma smiles back

exposing a pink slick gum line

 

flesh of the bread burns

under the heat of electric wires

it fills the air

toast pops up

flies up into the air

and lands

on a bone china plate

granny’s wrinkly hands are quick

she’s a nishnawbe ninja

 

she scrapes off some butter

the knife glides easily over the rough terrain

the yellow disappears

sinking deep

 

i rescue the egg from the heat that lingers

lay it on the glistening toast

put the other slice down on top

it yearns to be a part of it all

cut it in half, diagonally

from corner to corner

i offer the fried egg sandwich to granny

she sinks in,

gums only,

tears into it

sets the remains on the plate

with no distinct teeth markings

just jagged edges

 

her face shrinks into itself

with every bite

over and over again

her eyes black, glossy, bright

 

“mmmm…

mmmm

just like mine.”

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2 thoughts on “fried egg sandwich

  1. Fried egg sandwich, we call that a john wayne, think of the humour, think of the possibilities. Why we call it that i don’t know, just do.

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    • i honestly never heard of that one before. why john wayne, weird man. you are the man of weird. jk. see ya on friday! btw. dave will be launching his new book of poetry, “Under God’s Pale Bones” at the Carleton Tavern on March 25, 2011.

      Like

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