Anecdote of Eggs

 
After my husband left I couldn’t stop eating eggs.
At first just scrambled, in the morning, like always
but then in the afternoon too.
Fluffy omelettes, tarty frittatas.
Late evening I would eat
eggs, poached on toast points,
fried into bread holes,
dripping gold yolks spilled
onto Buffalo China plates I licked
afterward. I created a dish
I called “Runny Mess!”
a miasma of eggs and potatoes
plus any other ingredients
available to be disastered.
Soon there was no time for heat.
I just cracked eggs, one by one,
into a bowl then a cup then
my mouth, gulping
egg jelly oozing
through laryngeal tissue
knocked back in spasms,
like shooting whiskey, like
sword swallowing.
Enough, I thought.
I surrendered.
Stopped with the whole
raw egg-bong thing.
Instead
I just opened
the carton
and swallowed
swallowed
all those eggs
shelled, whole,
hard, uncracked I
swallowed
like a snake would swallow
prostrate creature
writhing coiling forcing
life
down its maw

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(Featured image from Pexels)