The Egg

She loved the smell of those dishwashing
pods, the bleach-infused sunshine emanating
from them. Late nights, if she couldn’t
sleep, the bats filling up the sky like puzzle
pieces, she’d get out a squeegee & feel
the grime of this life lose the war. She’d
be out in the side yard, watching her own
reflection in the glass, extending beyond
it, way past the window frame, like wind getting 
a head start down a river gorge, & her arms
would be gesticulating in some way that
seemed unconnected to her present activity.
She might feel her ribs rising under her skin,
her wool sweater creating little hidden
ignitions in the dark. Sometimes the wing
of a bat flapped a wingtip into her hair,
but she welcomed the touch, like a puffed-out
candle flame. It was the moon creating for  
her this flickering dancer on the siding, but  
if she wanted to feel as if she were on stage
she might clamp a floodlight to an old
rafter. Insomnia, always, this close to the summer
solstice. At 2 a.m. she might hard-boil
an egg & look out through a now clean window
at the blue, green, & gold landscape, the
towering tree line full of columnar aspen
bending away from their roots despite the
absence of wind, the moon flashing in its
place behind them like a headlight strobing
through gaps in a runaway train. Sometimes
bats would flap the moon out of view
but their flapping wings were a comfort, like
hailstones landing on the backs of large
horses. She smiled. When she hit the shell of
the egg with a spoon a sulfur smell crept
into the many corners of the house. Everything
was fighting for space, it seemed to her some-
times, & if she concentrated really hard she
could feel herself apart from the trees & the
bats & the day’s withering heat emanating
out of the glittering face of the moon, & her
mouth would water as she salted the egg’s  
smooth surface, somehow so unlike any other
type of food she could think of, & not like
a planet, either, or a stone. It made its own light.