I’ve been thinking about the anatomy
of the egg, about the two interior membranes,
the yolk held in place by the chalazae, gases
moving through the semipermeable shell.
A curious phrase, the anatomy of the egg,
as if an egg were a body, which it is,
as if the egg could be broken then mended,
which, depending on your faith, broken yes,
but mended? Well. Best to start
again, with a new body, voided
from a warmer one, brooded and turned.
Better to begin as if some small-handed
animal hadn’t knocked you against a rock,
licked clean the rich yolk and left
the albumen to dry in the sun — as if a hinged
jaw hadn’t swallowed you whole.
What I wanted: a practice that reassured
that what was cracked could be mended
or, at least, suspended so that it could not spread.
But now I wonder: better to be the egg or scaled
mandible? The small hand or the flies, bottle black
and green, spilling their bile onto whatever’s left,
sweeping the interior, drinking it clean?
I think, something might have grown there, though
I know it was always meant to be eaten,
it was always meant to spoil.