When I was a child I once went
outside: with an egg in one hand,
eggshells in the other, to stand,
hiding in a cool shade, content.
Squeezing shells, until they relent,
empty shell crumbled first in tanned
fist. Then the fresh egg popped, yolk ran
down my arm in bloody descent.
No one wants to crumble like shells,
so we gorge ourselves on ourselves:
emptiness. Filled with empty vice
but drink and drugs and sex can smell
like sulfuric eggs bought in twelves.
We stink, but won’t break. This will suffice.