At the Breakfast Table

We each crack an egg
in the empty breakfast room.

Inside of mine
a parachute packed
to a postage stamp
a compact mirror
so that I might admire myself
a bottle of Chateauneuf
and a signed photo of Buster Keaton.

Inside of yours
a wounded hatchling
with sapphire eyes
beats unfinished wings
and stirs the air to fury-

a tidal wave of light
washes through the room
drains from windows
at either end.

I behold you now
uncloaked and true
a sphere of diamond studded
night sky
whose tears burn through the floor.

I behold you now
in all your griefs and losses
your victories forgotten
stripped by wounding time
your love reduced by shame
to whispered nothing....

You crack your egg and smile at me
yolk dripping from your spoon.
I pass the salt politely
in the empty breakfast room.

Oh darling, let me flay my skin
and throw it at your feet.
Let this distemper never fade.
Let me smash this tabletop
and drag you screaming
into love.

Let’s hijack planet Earth
and ride it, howling,
headlong for the sun.