Egg, Potato, StoneBernadette Geyer
In the photo, ten of them. Mottled, trailing bracken, huddled on a parched, cracked backdrop gray as when the indecisive sky changes with each blink: now shades of winter-before-snowfall now dawn-following-the-illness. They could be anything. Flat landscape of a blank doll face. Emotionally cryptic as a clown. If they are eggs, they are not mine. They are eggs of the barren, eggs of women whose wombs split in childbirth. Seamless eggs of a cracked future. Shake them. Hear their viscous potential. If they are potatoes, let them be firm and smooth as a hungry child’s swollen belly. Weigh them in your palm: the heft of pestilence inversely proportional to the buoyancy of gluttony. If they be stone, Lord, let them be porous, so tears may flow right through them. Dense, heavy moons. Tiny, stillborn moons.
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