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A Dream of an Egg

Every time I escape my own murder, I become more like a murderer.

In the dream my mother splayed on a candlelit nest of pillows in darkness. She wore the same faded pink threadbare bathrobe that I remember her wearing when I was a child.

Mom never told me to become a murderer, but she herself was a murderer, and so I couldn’t help myself but in turn become a murderer like her.

My very first murder attempt happened at the time of my birth. Quite often her face would turn bright red when she screamed at me.

(Oedipus is for the dogs, and by dogs I mean men. Even the Electra complex revolves around women competing for a man’s attention.)

She tore at her own belly in a rage: eggshells cracking in bloodied hands: entrails flowing across white feathers.