It’s finally possible to microwave
the perfect egg. I take a shallow bowl
with Mandarin carp hand-painted on the bottom,
puncture the yolk, before
my daughters wake, before the peace
of night is gone. I grate pecorino
to Eine Kleine Nachtmusik;
Oolong tea in raku, on teak
beneath a spray of roses.
The crossword in the paper begs eight letters
for what of innocence is drowned.
I check the news as far away, a plane,
a drone. A helicopter skims by rooftops.
Under beating blades young gods
drop shards of paper into air.
One takes Polaroids of geraniums
blown off balconies. Through air
that swims with scarlet petals,
paper drifts, a test of wind, a non-parade.
More helicopters come, no
ordered bees from unforgiving hives.
I wake the children, take them to the cellar.
Musicians rush from the house next door,
and school girls from the upstairs arrive half-dressed
as bombs start falling to the east. The air
grows strange with scents of strawberries
and solvent; the cockateel drops noiseless
from its perch with tightened wings.
Outside, fine powder dusts the windshields
of the silent cars as a mender rams his head
against a blinking light. Inside, my eyes
begin to bleed. It’s morning, don’t ask where,
as if it’s someplace else.