this intimate object, which is also a place,
which is also a network of shivers and calls between us –
when i compare it to an egg, i’m not saying
i want to be the one asleep in it.
don’t want either of us asleep in this.
but we both know the inside of an egg is for growing
which is what i hope for.
on the inside, the egg it isn’t as you imagine
it isn’t yellow for the most part, but
that which is alive shows up
in pink and red and orange pulses
and the occasional darkness of a vein
somewhere, there is an eye, and when it rises
we don’t question its place –
it is there so it can all continue.
this is what i want: the pulsing, merging each day,
the appearance of things that make sense.
not the dead thing cracked
stiff and unfulfilled
clean round white and yellow on a plate
hardened bubbles on the edge scarred
from the struggle against a violent oil
i don’t want us on a plate
i want the possible, the wet and messy vein looking in
through the impossible gap in the shell
when i say our bed is like an egg it’s just
in terms of cartoon colours, simplified.
but to simplify is to deaden, sometimes.
what i mean is what’s missing: us
in the laid-out emptiness, ready
to be wrapped, given pulse,
and grow from each other’s wing.