Breakfast

Winter comes as I am cracking eggs over
a frying pan in the concrete grey morning.
The trees have gone bare but
the lovely young women are still fertile,
as if summer did not end, but rather
took refuge in the mishmash of organs
behind their flat white stomachs.

I imagine a field of sunflowers
bursting brilliant greens and yellows
inside my uterus.
I hold an egg in my hand and somehow
feel I am confronting an ovary.
Sipping coffee, I realize I am
lost in the refrigerator's
cold trade winds,
contemplating fruits and vegetables,
trying to figure out
how to be a woman.