back to the egg

It sizzles in its pan, bubbles of air forming,

rippling to freedom. She will cook it until

the butter browns, until it crisps like ends

of bacon, like rims of cookie, like the soy-

tinged brown where chicken meat met

grill, flames tango tangere & tactus taste

dead flesh; mankind, his tongs, his apron, 

his dish receives this muscle mass, life

the line between sweet caramel and char.

1. chicken and egg

2. the way of all flesh

3. the made thing