by Chanel Brenner
Riley is dead,
and now, I make eggs
for his brother,
like I used to do
for him.
As I boil the water,
I remember how Riley loved
to shift them
in the glass bowl
while they cooled,
watching light
flicker the water,
as if he beheld a world,
unknown to me,
somewhere he used to be
or wanted to return to.
I imagine Riley gliding
like the eggs,
through silken water,
back into
the embryo’s shell,
the membrane so sheer
I can almost see through,
to where a ray of light
must have beckoned him.
Sometimes, I imagine
him on the other side
of a veiled split,
or in another kitchen,
staring at eggs
with a knowing
he’s unable to grasp.
I drop the hardboiled eggs
in a bowl of cold water,
submerge my hand,
and sway the ovals
with my fingers.
Their shells clink
like bells
at a faraway church.
“Hard-Boiled Eggs” first appeared in The Midnight Oil.
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