By Matilda Harjunpää

I crack an egg into the anodized nonstick 8-inch pan and watch the white coagulate a little too quickly, hems crisping up and dancing in the oil.

I turn down the heat and think how the world was born out of seven bluebill eggs that fell into the sea and broke to form the the soil, the sky and all the stars. I think of the warm edges of the flat earth where birds fly to take refuge from the winter, and of the tiny wooden lark on my grandmother’s nightstand that prevents her soul from escaping when she sleeps.

I of course know the world is round. I puncture the yolk and it runs.


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