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Poem: I Dream of Eggs in the Trunk 

blue green eggs, the Araucana eggs I
knew as a child.
I remember collecting them then
wanting to horde them, wear them somehow.
I wanted to lick that color. Bite the shell.

Now, dream after dream,
I place them in the refrigerator
I notice which ones are loose and
which ones are boxed, and I smile, tilted head.

I drive away with them so close to one another
in the trunk that there is no way for them to crack.
loose and tight all at once.
And as they touch,
they make a tingling sound,
the sound of a first touch,
the thrill of impact from a kiss below the waist—
anticipated but unknown.

Speaking of...

  • A poem by Elizabethanne Spiotta.


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