Today I eat a Van Gogh for breakfast, br a toasted Starry Night. br Cinnamon swirls whirling between the white wash of the flour br and raisins, like stars, perched between these spirals of sugared bronze. br My buttered knife, the steeple that br penetrates, br casting a yellow stain over the scene. br br In the pallet of a blue bowl, br a galaxy of white and yolk br spirals and spins br into itself before br splashing onto the canvas of the sizzling skillet. br A stroke of red pepper, br a splatter of mushroom. br My arms conducting, br spatula in hand, br above the stove br weaving themselves between streaks of steam br like aerial ballerinas. br Pollack would be proud. br br No fork, br but hands br bringing the warm art into me. br The stars, br the steeple, br the paint, br all becoming one in my mouth.