I, childless mother,
scramble eggs of melancholy
with a silver-lining fork.
I add crumbles of bittersweet feta
to complement the honey mustard
of hope I squirt in, hurriedly.
I sprinkle salty tears and
freshly ground white pepper that is invisible
but stings like her memory loss
when it pops up in unexpected bites.
I fold this scramble of my morning
into a kind of omelette of distant memories
of a long ago rendez-vous with my Sacre Coeur in Paris
since eggs always hold dreams
we want to give birth to.
Pushing down the toast of quiet rage
I’m careful, not to let it burn.
I place the half-moon omelette
onto a starry plate next to toast sans charcoal and
serve it to a woman who said “Yes” to the rearranging
of nebulae, quasars and universes
to open up a black hole of black codes
bursting with ancestral songs seeds and prayers
ecstatic to send forth a
big bang to birth them-in-me
into being and form
can’t remember how she was God
on an ordinary Winter’s day in New York
buried under piles of blackened snow plowed high
slowing taxi’s race to a crawl to hospital
of my birth
but I, in my great-fullness,
thank my mother for her “Yes” with my omelette
and toast, my laughter and lists,
my crossing over ocean and
to hold her hand through another duel
… or rebirth.