The Eggs Are Talking Lena Kinder
The eggs are talking. We miss mother, they say. I take them from their carton and rub the moisture from their shells. With a marker, I draw smiley faces on them. They spit raspberries with their make-believe tongues. The first egg I break is welsummer. In a bowl, I stir the yolk. Where's mother? they ask. I take another egg, azure, and repeat. "Laying more eggs," I say. A gray fetus follows the movement of my whisk. It's cold, it says. Warm her, warm her, say the eggs. I turn on the stovetop and begin.
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