the chicken, the egg, and the car on fire

We’re standing on the front porch barefoot,
picking feathers off our tongues, and
the car’s on fire, but that’s okay because
it’s supposed to do that once in a while.

In the side yard, mottled shadows dance

to the beat of creaking clapboards.

The chicken in the coop is dreaming

of flight; the egg under the chicken, of light.

What do you want? you say.
I want the end to be soft, I answer, like

porridge or sleep or the kiss of the

boy who called me birdie, like badminton or

“say birdie!” or a thing to flip.

I don’t want it to be unforgettable

without having to remember.

We’re still watching the car go up in flames,

waves and waves and waves

of shimmering heat.

Someone’s put music on. Someone’s peeled

the moon like jelly candy.

You see it? I point at nothing and

you squint. I point at you and

you make a funny face.

The car crackles, the sound

eggshells make when they’re

stepped on. I think of

the chicken screaming from the roof

at dawn because it’s mistaken itself

for the sun. All things mistake themselves

for something brighter.

In the morning

the chicken will leave its nest and

I will hold its egg in my palm. Still warm.

Could be anything, could still break.