Egg

What is so physically absent from me
shows an invisible marvelous
force inside my mind, a wind of deep
soft purple echoing in my rib cage.
Death,
The door,
The light,
The crossing,
The quiet puncture,
The slow drip,
Time’s King,
The silent reverberation,
A cold hand,
The shuddering exhalation,

That which holds, as in chemical reactions,
Realism,
Tangible ideas and ideologies:
The skin,
The eyes,
The organs; tissue
That, is only a shell, although shell is a negative word,
I’d like to speak to the idea that this is not a hollow shell
it’s full, an egg.

More fragile than it looks to be,
My body the egg, yes, yes,
the sound of the skull on concrete
dragging makes me just as anxious.
and the inevitable death inside of me,
what shatters purple and smokey
broken into a thousand places at once
like a thought.

Without breath it is a shroud
No oxygen and it becomes my eyes, my mind
Reaching for a thought through
the canvas of my dreams
wishing to find the quiet nod
or, the eyes fixed down and head shaking
a “yes” or a “no” to
What happens after the yolk of my soul
is spilled, cooked and eaten.

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