The Eggman's Wife

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The eggman's wife just opened up the door
At nine AM. Already she was baked.
A lotus-eater, dripping in the reek
Of drooping petals hanging from her eyes
All crimson-grave, and telling all the tale—
Been ripping on the bongs since early dawn.
And though she's gone—fair addled on the stuff—
There's still a little sweetness there. A light
That plashes in the rockpools of her whites
And sultry breezes hanging off her gown
And the Hazy Jane esurience of her smile
That almost seemed to beckon you inside...
***
Her light—as fresh and yellowy and sweet
As an eggyolk shining tender in the gleam
Of sunlight through the crack upon its shell,
Now exile from the calcinated walls
His mother laid an hour ago, and kept
In womby darkness, clucking on the straw
Now claps like viscous lightning to the pan
And nestling in frothy flaxen foam—
A golden orb, soft-swaddled in the sun's
Maternal fire and amniotic gold—
Tempera-touched, in her coddling embrace
This crisp and sizzling image of her grace...
***
Now a yolk's a treasure, delicate and sweet
That's nestled in the albumen
And there it sits, bound proper by the shell—
Which one is God's. The plucking of the yolk—
That's shattering the bond that God hath wrought—
And forges you a ticket straight to hell—
And that right soon. Go crack an eggman's rage:
He'd kill you, boy. He'll strike your mischief dead.
And knock your brains like pudding from your head—
Their scrambled fragments scattered on the street—
Or bring that grief—two barrels for his own
And hers—a can of petrol for the home—
The screams of clucking feathers in the flames—
And leave you with the daggers of the glares
Of village wives; the viperous hissing tongues—
Called killer for the pleasure of your loins—
How could you sleep, o'ershadowed by the guilt?
Or wake in growling hunger with the dawn
Without those eggs, so tasty and so fresh?