I counted my chickens before they hatched.
I had twenty seven.
But I had no need for twenty seven chickens, so I used the eggs to make lemon meringue pie.
Sift together cornstarch, flour, and sugar
In kettle, bring water to boil
Feeling neglected, the pot called the kettle black,
Which didn’t make sense—
The kettle was red.
Simmer in double boiler for five minutes
Meanwhile, beat four egg yolks
Absent-mindedly, I let the eggs roll off the counter.
They cracked upon landing, leaving custard-colored pools of embryonic fluid at my feet.
I spent the rest of the day walking on eggshells.
Add boiling mixture to eggs (slowly, to temper)
Stir in grated lemon rind, butter, salt, and lemon juice
Pour filling into baked pie shell
Unfinished, the pie resembled a placid lake of yellow infant snot, smooth like a freshly zambonied Olympic ice-rink, if only smaller and more circular. The summer scent of fresh lemons drifted through the air, entering my nostrils in bursts of citrus delight.
I sat and absorbed the moment—light streaming across the ceiling through the open window, the summer song of birds drifting through the air, dreams wafting from through the trees, through my oven, through my heart—while I contemplated the poetic merits of the instruction manual that came with my can opener.
"Mary Oliver..." was originally published in Manuscript and has been reprinted with permission from the editor. The publication is a student-produced literary and fine arts magazine. To request a copy or to submit written pieces or artwork, e-mail Manuscript editors Gloria Jimenez (jimenezg@carleton.edu) or Gwen Kirby (kirbyg@carleton.edu).