The Strength of an Egg
I learned strength in the weight of an egg.
It sits heavy in my hand now, yet before
when my fingers were still so small,
I had to hold it with both hands.
You measured out the rest against it
before you let me break it. Over a glass,
You said it’s easier that way,
to crack the thin shell on its edge
I watched it fracture in slow motion
as I tapped it gently, again and again.
The splinters of shell still holding
until I dug in my thumb nails.
I had to force the two halves apart.
The white dripping down my knuckles as I pull
the egg breaks, liquid gold cascades
and lands, half in the glass, half out.
The crunch of shell between fingers
as my hands curl and close around the remains
You calmly clean up the mess
and gently, pass me another.