Poached Eggs for Two - Anaise D'Aquila (Omaha, Nebraska)
My mother drops an egg and, with a slotted
spoon long enough to reach the bottom of the pot, stirs
gently, spiraling the water
which has been salted generously
and splashed with white wine vinegar,
so that the egg will land in a whirlwind
of tangy poaching liquid, catching
the bleak fragmentation of the eggshell
while she dips into the savory nectar, the acid
causing the glair white of the egg
to seize up, the watery bits
stringing out into lacy blooms,
until the egg whites resembles
an aurelia aurita, surrounded
by boiling seawater, its tendrils splaying out
like the sun, and before you know it, the white
of the egg resembles a silky cream, not unlike dew
drops, and the yolk, when broken, spills like
gold coins from a pouch, so much so, that
my mother serves it on toast, speckled
all tawny and deep umber from the broiler,
to lap up all the spilt goodness, and
tomatoes, fruit of toil and earth —
and seeds like spider eggs
or like little jewels, you decide.