The inside of the egg
held bones I roll
between tips and thumb,
watching the sac roll over
spine like so many eyes.
My cake flattens as I
dismember tail from head,
joints popping like Legos.
The Kenmore’s cleaving cold
whispers silence to me,
and I ward the body
from my dog’s tongue,
dripping water on my toes.
I shovel near tomatoes a
burrow deep enough from
Bentu, and my son wonders
Are eggs chicken menstruation?
I ponder thoughts of veganism
rather than my son’s thirteenth
birthday and graves. The tomatoes
bulge their skins and snap
vines—a placenta better than
any Miracle-Gro.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment