Beauty, as Observed in Egg Yolks

Viscous trails along the counter

from a violent break-away

and a sunspot on the surface;

she asks if it was alive—I tell her no.

“They’re organic; they’re never squeaky-clean.”

She thinks it’s blood or an eye

that blinked once before pasteurization.

All it saw was white—

not the light you see in movies

while the voice of God tells you

to come closer.

“They’re organic—they just have more…

...stuff.” She asks if I’m sure.

I say yes but I mean no.

I’ll just pretend I’m eating the sun.