Mother contributes to progress
by upgrading to a new side-by-side refrigerator.
She’s sold by the many compartments,
the labeled drawers for lunchmeat
and fruit. Baby sister can’t see and chatters
at the dining room wall on a stepstool.
Mother has an appointment with a specialist
and honey-harangues her to the kitchen
with the promise of bananas suspended
in jello. I pull the door of the new fridge
like it’s still wide as a Buick. An egg flies
from the keeper and lands on the floor.
I see there’s a sliding lid for the purpose
that isn’t completely closed. I turn
to mother to show her and find her gagging
into her hand. Her other arm flaps me
towards the paper toweling. “Don’t make me
look at it,” she says. The egg breaks intact
and beautiful, the yolk a high dome of vivid
yellow. “It’s just an egg,” I say.
Baby sister kneels next to it on the floor,
blinking myopically. “Poor baby,” she says.
