Here is a man emerged from tunnel with a steel drum
hammered, a coveting—our wok: caves mystic as ground
following inward to the navel and spurting geysers hot
like at earthy landmarks for every-man folk.
As music it hisses, when we add more to fill family
and depth, with steam and spray. And when our eggs
plop into pot. Right now I am staring at a bowl of eggs,
ellipsoids pristine and dove-white. Surfaced drum-
solid from the water, I crave yolk branching like family
trees and raw in my dish. Gulpy, or muddy as ground
I polished my teeth on in childhood, like those folks
in the country with dirty nails and cheeks flushing hot.
The first cabbage bites with reds and spicy oils, hot:
hhhaa-aah lowering my tongue in pants. Sister, egg-
headed, is lecturing on robots, widget-making, and folks
losing jobs all over Mexico, you-name-it. Ear-drum
faulty, my father’s face is leaned. Science grounds
their chatter and loses me in bits. Here is more family
talk: my father counts Jakarta, each poor-lucked family
that pet an ostrich too long, burned out like stars—hot
flashing and gaseous. The bird flu is a killer. Grounds
will jam up with young bodies but if you keep your eggs
at a boil, you’ll survive it. Serious and slow, he drums
an index finger into the table for emphasis. Some folks
don’t live. Made mouth-goings their basis, these folk
who swallow all they plow and pluck, build families
on horse manure. No television and night drummish
of news commanding the weather. Just cold—or hot.
And wet and dry. And milk before the carton, eggs
without carriage, faith carved circular into ground.
But that’s pasture envy. Islands are more than ground,
there is also water—diluting the color of folks.
Here, our pedigrees un-yoke. Note how as an egg,
I was not MADE IN ________, yet my family
confuses. Right now the cat wants up but the hot
water burns, so we yell like roaring drums.
Our voices ground him to a spot below the family
portrait. He purrs to folk strings, snorts the air hot.
Against spoon, eggshells split like skin of drum.