Eggs
When breaking an egg
the shell fractures in my hand,
scattering brown flints into the yolk.
I chase them round the bowl with a teaspoon,
scooping out the debris.
I usually miss a bit.
Fragile and strong,
eggs are clever beasts.
When we were children
you cooked us chucky eggs,
couldn’t stomach them yourself,
yet you lovingly cut fingers of white bread,
thickly buttered soldiers
to dip in the soft yellow,
and push forcefully into the runny yolk
until it rises up
over the lip
and dribbles away,
leaving sticky mess.
When I look in the mirror I see your face.
Me become you, you become me.
Fragments of childhood,
splinters of maternal love jagged beneath my skin.
The comfort and fear of inevitability,
the future foreshadowed.
No more eggs for me.
Writer: Jane
Artist: Priyanshi Borad
Clips and Pages 