Emily N. Howard

At the pink sliver sunrise
while I cooked an egg
my finger touched the burner
and it felt rough, not hot.

Today, then I remembered,
is one of those days
I am supposed to feel what I do not feel.

The sun rises in the sky
I break the yolk into my rice.
I would rather have what was taken 
from my grandfathers
than honor any thing
for which anyone fought and died.