Close to the Edge

Emari DiGiorgio

Watch it he says. I’m pushing the egg, subtly at first, but now
        that he’s said something, hard with the fork, launching
        a reckless wobble. I ask Is it selfless or selfish to kamikaze,

to hijack a 757 on its way to LA? What’s the difference? Honor
        he says believing one’s country is right. Right? The egg’s close
        to the edge, and I’m tempted to smash it with my fist,

stop its uneasy scuttle. This is our kitchen, our counter, our dinner
        half-prepped, our tv ringing in the other room. But I feel
        as if I were spinning inside that egg. I don’t know, can only

imagine inside that shell, that plane, that pilot. Honor: protect and
        serve? a shiny metal badge? the sheriff’s heavy holster?
        I heat the skillet, the oil thins. Somewhere a child chooses

to load a gun, somewhere he doesn’t have a choice. This egg can’t ever
        be a chicken no matter how long I leave it in the fridge
        or cradle it between my feet on the couch. You’re wrong

he says. And you’re in trouble if you can’t see the difference. He’s right—
        I can’t separate the two. And he can’t hear me, won’t imagine
        the woman who straps the bomb-purse beneath her Salwar

might believe her life a sacrifice, this death honorable.

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