Elegy for Patience

My family’s dog loved fried eggs
and we used to feed them to her sometimes –

crispy whites still spitting with oil from the cast iron,
my father fruitlessly yelling savor it! savor it!

as she enveloped our hot gift in her mouth
and devoured it whole. If it burned her, she hid it well.

Praise yourself for a triangle toast point. Praise yourself
for the intention of a well-made breakfast. But now,

who among us would stop to chew
when the fullness of our lives awaits? The dog was right.

When our exile is over, I think we’ll swallow up the whole world,
we’ll scorch our mouths on the yolk, we’ll never say it hurt.

Madeleine Crowley lives in San Francisco and recently started writing poetry again.