PAULA STACEY

SISTERS AT BREAKFAST ON THE FIRST DAY AFTER

We used to have
a father. Now we
have two boiled eggs
cooling
in a painted bowl
on the table
between us.

A lone palm tree
plies the sky
rising
out of the eggs
its trunk just grazing
your right elbow.

This is what
we do–wait
at the speed
of heat, moving
from shell to air,
settling in small
pockets.

Down below,
multitudes.
The I-5 merges
with the 134.
Los Feliz Blvd
cuts a line through
the city, possibly
all the way
to the ocean.

And the eggs cool. Soon,
their shells will be
cracked open, splintering
into many fine lines
and intersections. Such
a useless map.