Poem-a-Day

This day, I wake up later than South Georgia, slow and alone,
while my family has all woken up together, ironed nice shirts

and filed into black cars. I want my grandmama’s soft-scrambled eggs
for breakfast, cat-head biscuits, cane syrup thick as any of us,

and maybe some collard greens, though they don’t go together.
From my laptop in my kitchen, I smile

when my uncle stands to tell one of our sad-funny stories.
I can pick out my cousin’s laughter from a pew near the camera.

I name everyone I see, dressed in their Monday-best, as I stand
to cook in my underwear. The livestream loses connection during

the part of the story about thunder and lightning. From 2,000 miles
away I don’t know how to tell them, so I sit down to eat a good breakfast

that is not good enough. When my mother leaves the funeral, she calls.
When she cooks, she works her way across the egg carton,

using every egg on one side before using any on the other.  
She also loads the dishwasher without any semblance of order. My way is slow,

but efficient. I work from each side of the carton to the middle
for balance. My mother and I don’t always know how to feel

about each other. I mention feeling softly-scrambled and she agrees.