My KitchenAid will outlive me and every egg rattling
around inside me, but I still try to love it and use it often.
I mix just long enough to combine. I lick the flat beater clean.
Today’s menu: apple coffee cake. Pippin peels pushed
to the trash, the browning innards folded into batter.
S and I had another stupid fight. The dog needed to shit
every two hours last night, and I got upset, said she was mean.
It was a joke, of course. She’s a dog, of course. S said, Will you
think our children are mean when they wake you in the night?
Yeah, probably. It’s like my father used to say: nothing good happens
after midnight. So what, I’m indifferent. So what, I don’t want
to carry anyone’s children. I like my body the way it is. Don’t tell
my mother. Don’t tell S. I crack another egg. Oomancy: oracle,
scrying, a heads-up on what’s to come. I break the shell to find
two yolks. I tap my wrist against the bowl until I bruise.