Dialectic

by Susan Konz

Here I am, two eggs in a bowl
translucent goop keeps my yolk from yolk
I get salt & peppered, your shaky hand,
the sweat in your voice even this early
saying you’re sorry like most mornings
– or here I am, a bowl cupping yolks
palm up, an invitation for egg’s gentle sway,
my hand, the back of your head like
a child, long brown hair, scramble
them and cover it in ketchup.
 
Here I am, one dumb yolk,
wet still in the frying pan
– here I am, jiggling my periphery,
figuring out where I go, can go, getting
hot. No salt, sizzle I, with sweat
in my voice – it was me who wanted
not you, but any other him or her to split
me. Of course this takes a little force,
but I’m stronger than you know, you who
cooks the yolk through while mine cracks
over the plate, sops the toast, you
mistake this desire for the desire
to be hurt, but you were wrong as
was I in your arms, my sweat
a translucence barring skin from skin,
where I want to cleave, be had,
right out in the broad of daylight,
know you, know me open, shell-less, wet.