Wednesday, January 12, 2011

A poem


Hard-boiling some eggs, I wonder
If I take the lid off the pan
Will I hear the shells singing?
Bubbles dance and rise
As I bend down and listen --

Steam warm against my ear,
And a delicate hiss,
Then a faint chirp and twitter
As the temperature rises.

If a shell has a weakness,
A crack unseen to the naked eye,
The pressure within
Will burst it,
And part
Of the semi-fluid egg
Will twist itself into the water,
Into distorted, rubbery nodules.

But these shells
Are whole this time:
Firm, and strong.
They do not explode.
The eggs within
Retain their shapes.

Shells so fragile,
Like the walls of my heart.
Shells so much stronger
Than the walls of my heart,
Which crack, then burst
As the feelings within pour out,
Mangled and hideous.

No one wants to look at them.
No one wants to touch them.

The eggshell heart
Has broken and died.

Now, how to move on,
Leave the pain behind,
When no song remains
For this eggshell
Heart of mine
To sing?

C.P. Warner
21 November 2010

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