egg baby lullaby 

when we were in 6th grade 
we learned the important things
in home ec class--
sitting at the wobbly front tables
everyone's grandmother
taught us how to sew a straight
line of stitching up the 
side of our draw string bags--
the boys on either side of me
laughed & found the pulsation of
the needle to be somehow sexual--
because boys will always find a way
to make a rape joke-- especially
if they feel any ounce of their 
masculinity is in question--
they held up their finished
bags & dubbed each other
fabulously "faggety"-- wrapping
the draw strings around their heads
while our grandmother-teacher buried
her green-rim glasses in 
a martha steward magazine-- a special
on the best preparation methods for eggs--
i pushed the peddle slow so
that the needle plunged into
the fabric-- measured & deliberate--
i fumbled with my thimble
shields & the machine hummed
a sort of lullaby to me--
it sung that if i
was quiet enough i would wake
up to find myself in a house exactly
like the make-shift kitchens
in the classroom-- white
stoves & what tables & white counters
& white ovens--
there would be a newspaper
bearing husband there waiting for
his morning sausage, eggs, &
hot coco (from the microwave)--
i would wear thimbles so nothing
would have to be real--
rub the pan with butter before
climbing inside--
on the table in a bassinet 
would sit my egg baby--
we were all the parents of hollowed
out chicken eggs-- drew features on
their smooth white faces 
so that they would smile at
us when we tried to forget them--
some schools use sacks of
flour or baby dolls but
our egg children reminded us
how fragile we all are &
how likely our real children would
soon be swallowed by a swell
of october wind--
i found myself getting
lighter & lighter with my child
on the kitchen table in a crib
made from an old easter basket 
stuffed with blankets & cotton
balls-- from the bottom of
the pan next to the links
of turkey sausage i looked 
up at a neon heaven & that was 
when i first heard her cry--
throat choked in yolk--
this is what we will learn to become
& my husband will page through
a newspaper & pretend i'm not
laying in the bottom of a black
metal pan browning in butter 
& pretend the egg baby isn't 
crying next to him on the kitchen 
table--
i'll eventually get up to
serve him breakfast & he'll throw
the sausage on a potato roll & 
kiss smack us goodbye--
pull a drawstring bag over
his he & laugh at how faggety 
kitchens make him feel & once
he has left i will sit back down at the
sewing machine-- begin again from
buzz-hum lullaby until the 
egg baby sleeps again--
i will have left the stove
on & my sausage will be charred
next to where i rested in the bottom
of the pan--
we learned the important things
in home ec class-- like all the words
boys would conjure to treat us
like counter tops & the handles of
pans while they put their
draw string bags on their heads
& our grandmother will again turn
the pages of her martha steward magazine to
a recipe for deviled eggs &
each of us girls in our
little kitchen play pens will 
place our egg babies in the palm of
our hands & resist every urge we have
to squeeze them until they break--