The Egg Silver Bandit
He’d make this queer face like this — no like this — with his eyes closed and his lips pushed like he would kiss the wind —
— yes that wind — but with commercial features — and he’d watch birds gather in excited powders over the fields and whistle at the dogs when they scraped the fence and only raise up when the kids went to fetch eggs and he’d be standing outside the coop demanding one egg, just one, each time, like a silver coin, a bandit, and he’d cradle the egg all day — and no one knew what he did with the egg —
— but the egg would be gone — like that — and his teeth would be clean — he always had food in his grassy teeth, like stalking animals; but the teeth would be clean, no eggs.
No. Turn your head. Like this. Hold it. Fix your beard.
His beard was a rectangle, like a coffee table, like you could dock boats. Yes: like that. And he’d sew insect dresses so when a woman walked into a cobbler or attended a play the ushers hooted fantastics and no matter the smell the dress-wearer knew she’d been marked. The stitches were railtracks. And when he died we weren’t sure what to do with his head. His sister kept most of the front in a dark box, of course, and finally they cut a statue in the chicken coop and added the little silver propellers so chickens wouldn’t perch and go to the bathroom —
— but the queer face, they never got it.
You’re close. But not. You’ll see.
They wrapped the base of the statue in a quilt for a week and cremated his whole body after weighing him and a parade near Macon, but his wife decided to take the ashes to a compressor and make a diamond. It took about a month, that pressure and fire. So, here — no, hold your hand out — get your head to the side — no like this.
