How to explode a dream
like a rotten egg.
Death – loud, protesting – fills the kitchen like a demand. The smell begs me off food, protests how things ends, beats the walls.
One of the eggs has gone rotten.
1.
When I was young I would watch the hens rustle behind an avocat rouge tree, hurrying their smooth hopes into dead leaves. It took persistence, scavenging for eggs.
Even in the market …
