Hours before high school I measured in the hypothetical 
tablespoon fulls of cold gooseberry jam 
I would have eaten on wheat toast if 
I hadn't been anorexic. 

Sway next to me on the crumb-counter top--
we can wear our bare feet slippers and rye-bread robes--
I'm here to make you breakfast if you're listening
close enough to hear my feet on the drafty floor--
fold cautious and sleepy with me into an omelette--
two eggs is enough to blur the 
egg-eye yolks-- blink fast like
a priest so they don't know that 
you're awake already-- blanket me
cheddar cheese melted-- my father
says to go back to bed-- and I counter
sway  alone and the television talks about
earthquakes and how a one-hundred year
old woman can still dance the polka--
before my father turns on shouting
about foot ball games never won
or foot ball games always won
in reserve-- reverse of a egg
thrown into a pan-- crack like a sun--

Tomorrow I'll have toast
and gooseberry jam and I'll sit
on the counter and eat.

so, We can pretend we're having a 
party here in the dawn musty kitchen 
before the school buses dig themselves
out of their caves in soppy saunter 
and we wake up before the sun knows who
his mother is-- blinks open
like a hemisphere of squeezed lemon--
bright and confused from birth--
thrown into the pan with the 
two eggs seeing with each other's eyes
wishing that they were both the
other while in the process of becoming
neither. 

I only need a slice of toast-- a table-
spoon with jam-- I know it's awhile till
lunch but the sun doesn't even 
know his mother yet--

Wrap your arms around me like
the thick lullaby lips of the lady
who chimes in repeat on the news
about the earthquake she'll explain 
after the break
after the break 
after the break
after the bacon commercial 
with the man lost-- fried-- crisp in 
the pan-- pan butter fried 
and cold gooseberry tablespoons--
after the break.
Wait for me after the break--

The news about the one-hundred year
old lady who still dances polka
still seems like a dream.

Did we wake up or
were we blurry as eggs
still in some lemon
dream from the sun--

"It's early" my father says.
"Go back to bed."

And we sway on the counter 
as drifty as crumbs or rye bread robes
or a spilled basket of gooseberries 
on the kitchen floor.

"It's early" my father says.
"It's early."