The Prejudice of the Egg

The Prejudice of the Egg
Jonella Allen

It is here, between these tapestries and under grey shingles that I play.
Unfurl the bedroll and build a campfire in the closet.
Kiss the girl.
Sinister tales that have no beginning lurk at the edge of my rotting gate.
It creaks and the Devil produces intoxication in a piggy bank.
The shower races along leaves and twigs under the canopy.
Drip. Drip. Drop. Bambi is afraid of the thunder. But it passes.

An organ grinder appears through the curtain. It is not the wizard.
Each crank of the handle forces cheese through the grater.
Kiss the girl.
I close the book and take off his glasses.
My arms stretch across the pool to stamp out the cigarette.
I don’t smoke.
I inhale deeply, fluttering my lids as the cloud wages war over blue and white buoys bobbing in
the chlorine stringing together the past and the future.
The cardboard fireplace in the lifeguard tower is lined with socks, each with an Orange in the toe
and brimming with walnuts that splash into the shallow end.
Pitter patter of little hooves on the roof.
Pitter patter.
Patter pitter.
Pit. Pit. Pat. Scrape.
Hooves scramble losing traction like roller skates on gravel.
Pat. Pat. Pit. Scrape.
Reindeer tumble past the curtain. Santa’s beard catches on a rusty hook.
Scrape. Scrape. Scrape the sides of the bowl. Make sure everything is well blended.

Chop the chicken. The whole chicken. No head and not running.
Sitting on the counter I hold my arms and howl.
Mother crunches the bones, pulling them apart into bite size pieces.
Bear and elephant dance with spears around the cauldron.
My bowl is full of cereal and milk. I insist it rests on the floor.
Eating like a dog without benefit of spoon or fingers. Lapping the milk.
Spoons are used for cutting out hearts.
Kiss the girl.
The rug peels back and the table sinks while chairs take up arms.
Crabapples collect in the upturned Frisbee,
the oversized green Frisbee that the day before had carried Indian war paint.
The sun-faded Frisbee, cracked and waiting like a land mine under the fence,
the fence leading to the rotting gate.
Drip. Drip. Drop. Bambi is afraid of the thunder. But it passes.

My bedroom sloshes with water rushing in from the storm. It needs a place to rest.
The killer whale drifts in on a wave, looking with her tiny blue eye for a meal.
If I stay very still, maybe she won’t see me. She flashes a glance at my cereal bowl.
Kiss the girl.
Clothes spin in the washing machine guided by a lighthouse on the cliff.
Churn. Churn. Rumble. Pause.
Churn. Churn. Rumble. Pause.
Churn. Churn. Rumble. Pause.
The dirty water explodes into the sink, overflowing, spilling onto the floor.

Wall sconces flicker and burn the degree growing dull in its red border.
Kiss the girl.
Frogs pirouette to Romeo and Juliet, leaping over the rotting gate.
Kiss the girl.
The campfire in the closet extinguishes.
Kiss the girl.
The piggy bank is empty.
Kiss the girl.
The Devil takes his due.
Fuck the girl.
Bread ties and candy-coated chocolate still twist the spoon.
Drip. Drip. Drop. Bambi is afraid of the thunder. But it passes.

Originally published by Cyclamens and Swords Publishing April 2012.