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.

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