ode to steamed eggs

(After Kevin Young's "Ode to Boudin")

You are the sun in my mouth.
Three golden yolks swimming
at the bottom of the bowl. When I pierce
the clear sacs, the unborn flow
out rich and viscous, their beauty beaten
slowly apart and then released into the ether.
You are a cloud that absorbs whatever
I put inside you: rough scallions,
velvet skin of mushroom, pink and white fans
of kamaboko thinly sliced, sweet crunchy
corn from the earth. But I like you best
when you are pure light. Pale yellow silk, river
of cream and chicken broth, diaphanous
protein. You are the reason I know that food
can be air, rising from within, lifting the soul
like homemade wings. You fed me the day
my grandpa set sail on a sea of paper lotuses
inked with words from a different language.
Soon hands will release him into the fire,
then ash and bones---chalk white dust lighter
than even you. For now, the soft sponge
of memory travels inside me, cutting me loose
like a hot air balloon, or a lantern consumed by
itself in the night, then pause, then silence.
You fold over me like music, regret having
not spoken, not seen, my grandpa gone,
or grief, or both. The prelude to Bach's
cello suite plays in the background,
as we look up and watch photos---
an entire life, small, yearning---flash

across the projection screen, beneath
a constellation of orchids.