I found the egg
while adventuring around the construction site
by my schoolyard.
I picked it up, cupping it feather-light in my palm.
Cold.
I held it for hours,
sensing movement, then convincing myself otherwise.
I began to think if I tried hard enough
I could revive whatever lay inside.
I’ll take it home
Put it under my pillow
Keep it warm
I squeezed too hard.
A crack, tiny,
oozed clear liquid on my hands.
I shrieked, horrified, dropping it to the pavement.
Running home I felt sick,
heavy in my eyes and feet,
magnetic in the worst way.
I swore I heard a bird
chirping frenzied songs of sorrow.
Like when Dean died… remember?
Mom got to see him first.
She straightened his tie
and cried
and cried.
About Me