BPR 50 | 2023
At the 4-H fair,
I always wanted to hold
the eggs, warmed with life
in my hand. What a blessing,
that opacity in which
to make oneself. I thought
of the little beings inside,
the spiraled spines wound
like the machinery of a clock,
each tine clicking into place,
turning to make the thing go.
Some things inside of us
are meant to die
before we do. We lose
our elasticity and ornament,
the soft curls around the face
that numb our angles, make us
seem more alive. Cryptic brain
that pumps us into being,
hormone by secret hormone,
elixirs that save us
or put us into shame.
O little gears unwinding!—
loose the delicate teeth
from their casings. I want to feel
myself uncoil like a spring
losing its tension, free
and bareheaded as the dome of a shell.