TO TELL YOU THE TRUTH
by Eben Atreyu Bracy
I’m hungry for
eggs cooked in a skillet,
cast iron
as old as my grandma.
The problem with Teflon
is that it doesn't
show its age.
The eggs come out
creamy, as
slushy slopes
that jiggle.
Teflon doesn't
argue or reckon.
It’s age is ageless,
impervious to times touch.
My grandma’s skillet
cast iron, sheds.
Flaky bits of metal
falls from its handle.
Dead skin from a
wrinkled palm.
Leaves on a
tree in winter.
It crackles
a dozen stories
about all of the foods
it has ever met.
letting loose
little black bits
of iron, charred
pieces of memory.
Her eggs came out
crisp, plantain yellow.
Hard fried with all
that they could remember.
Don’t waste none now,
Is what grandma told me.
She taught me
even the burnt bits,
have value.
When she cooked
I ate everything,
like I was soul sick,
leaving nothing to waste.
She’d fought that pan
all her life,
and I could taste
the struggle.