Wendy BooydeGraaff

Scrambled Eggs

My mother whisked them with
a fork, her torso whirling along-
side the yolks. Fried in butter

salted and spread between
brown toast, softened with
steam in a plastic fold-over

sandwich bag: breakfast to-go
because at twelve or thirteen
I rose from bed to hear the bus

engine idling at the end
of the laneway, the driver a
nervous man who arrived

twenty minutes early (I was
the second pick-up on the route;
Sammy bouncing between seats,

younger, chattier, until he disappeared
when the bus filled). The driver, sour
breath baked into enamel, watched

me race down the gravel and sit
heaving in the very back seat
where the exit door windows cooled

my back, safety glass between me
and the road undulating behind us.
I watched his eyes in that oversized

rearview mirror. The bus did not
bump forward. Instead it huddled
on Elm Tree Road while I ate warm

soft eggs, licking salt from my finger-
tips, watching my house like the visitor
I would soon become.

After the First Day of School

Let’s bite a peach on the front
step, bursts of flavour dribbling
rivulets down our chins. Let’s eat
sweet memories of summer, clinging
to the pit, soft fuzz coating
our tongues. Let’s watch
the neighbours pull into drive-
ways, waving, not noticing
the best part of us, we hold
in our hands.

What’s for dinner tonight?

The friend who often called, asking what
was I making for dinner, not understanding

how I couldn’t know, didn’t have it planned,
how even the question of it interrupted

the flow of me. How dinner’s not something worth
chatting about, how, unless we are together

and will be sharing the same table, what she
is eating and what I am eating is as mundane

as discussing which footprints I saw in the snow
this morning. But since I did write a poem

about that, why not also this: the pressure
I feel about dinner and how its components

war in the fridge and the pantry, dependent
upon me and my recipes to figure how they

mash together into a meal, how they sustain
ideas and ideals, the physicality

of nourishment that I, as mother, resist.