I am an egg.
White, oval, textured,
something to be held
in an old man’s
hand.

I am an egg.
Photocopy paper.
White cashmere sweater
under simple black pant suit.
Evian water bottle cap.
Pretty,

bleach white
like my teeth from Crest Strips
before too much Starbucks
and Chilean Cabernet.
A silent snowball
cut with an ax.

I am an egg. Sticky
inside from many lovers.
Yellow inside, like a sharp #2 pencil.
Yellow, like a Dollar Store sign
illuminating my old neighbor’s
odorous brains.

Yellow like the butterscotch
candies my grandmother kept
in her silver Dodge. Yellow
as the whites of my brother’s
eyes. Crack pipes and Cheerios.
A single starry
cancer cell. The condoms
that have broke inside me
and bled out.

I am an egg. White, sticky,
veiny from a mother who
smothered too late and abandoned
too early. Veiny as a tender
thigh bruise.
I am the egg that bursts
and dies in my body. I am the egg
splattered, dripping.