The side of the bowl and other places
I learned to crack an egg.

Smashed under the seat cushion--quiet
sneaky as an umbilical chord
tight around my wrists-- the friendship
bracelet woven by my father
the 'X' stitching-- through my
fingers-- the white veil-- virgin
bride of the egg-- who here
hasn't asked their mother if there are
baby chickens inside egg yolks
in side apple pies
in side cupcakes
inside the birds nest
of a slice of wheat toast
slippery from butter and birth--
where else have we cracked like
ladies? Are we the closed egg
shell-- gentle-- refrigerated--
the lonely grocery bag on top
of the potato rolls-- 
we say-- 

NO there are no chickens
in cupcakes cakes and birthdays
and apple pie and frittata--
the asparagus 
quiche I wear like a sun hat--

We aren't just for babies
but they taught us about the sides
of the bowl when we were little
and too little to know anything about
blood. 
Just little enough to know
that baking was something
mother could do without the back
of a box-- something we knew
about-- listened for how
many eggs to crack on the edge
of the metal bowl-- swollen like
flour and bread loaves--

How many of us have thought we were dying or
sunny side up in the passenger seat?
How many of us have remembered that
our eyes are the openings to
ovens?

Save only the yolks
and crack-- snap-- rapture 
on the paper towel-- he
told me that's how you do it
so it's quiet
he told me that there's nothing
you can do but break
and you're going to break somehow
so why not go 
quietly in the muffle of a paper
towel instead of on the side of
a bowl-- loud and clumsy 
like small hands and
birthdays.

We all knew baking was as inevitable 
as paper towels and napkins 
and the whites of eggs--

scramble me with ketchup and blood
whisk my veil to a lather
to wash me in air-- I was fancy
enough for frittatas 
and homey enough for ketchup--
bold enough to crack
on the counter top and
pull the feathers out of
my cupcakes.