The Egg

L says I’m brave but I don’t feel it.
I’m supposed to brew eggs and yet

I am the egg, cracked and unbound.
O my unkempt, grotesque yolk, sobbing

with foam. A bead of blood rolls down
the boiled curve of my distended middle,

a tear descending a starlet’s cheek. It’s too cold
for the birds that lightened my days this year,

crowding the feeder, pecking each other's heads
to make space, kept going by xylophone heartbeats.

Today it hurts to look at myself in the mirror.
My therapist is thrilled that I feel so emotional.

Let me know if you want to make another
appointment this week, she says.

Today we went very deep.
This time is a gift, don't you think?