Sometimes we wake up to the deep
strangeness of our lives
and it threatens to wreck everything

Two tiny white lizard eggs
appeared in the latch of the door
right where the sun comes through

And I, quick-fingered and careless,
sent them flying to the ground
as soon as I tried to gather them

Somehow just one broke,
and a thin line of dark red blood
crept along the fractured shell

Cracked open, a small body
not quite living, curled over and waiting
for some unheard call to being

And I am its unwitting destroyer —
my regret outsized — or not,
depending on your sense of scale

To be alive is to crack through
nature’s smooth perfection
and gasp in terrible beauty

Here is one unbroken egg
waiting on some unfathomable measure
of whether to risk it


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