Eggs
By Lida Ford
We were going to have eggs, but you dropped them: dropped the carton the dozen from the back of the car: our car your car except the one payment so I own a 17th of it I joke, the white car that we got dirty: dirty from those backroad drives trying to find you another carton of eggs that morning: morning in the forest there were no stores for miles slept in the passenger seat you snored made fun of my nightmares but held my hand just the same windows down mountains and trees and stars but no eggs for your breakfast, so we ate dirty apples, stole firewood from the stand, you made us put it back, I will always love you for making us put it back, even though we were cold that night: cold so cold, the tops of the trees watching us sleep–sleep I never could stay up with you fell asleep in your arms even before the moon came out but how far we went under stars tattooed on my ribcage you held my hand I left scars on your hand that you carried across the world with me to foreign beaches with foreign tongues and us sneaking in: into the beach our beach the rich resort beach with cheap grocery wine not too sweet, I cannot drink sweet wine with you, and you when it rained how you yelled, we both yelled shouted at all the stars on my ribcage and all those beyond biking home with wet wind in our hair, rushing past sprayed painted paintings, but I rushed ahead, left–turned to go too quickly, and you behind, always to follow but what do I care when we have wine not too sweet and stars much too cold and all dozen eggs laying smashed open with yellow yolks frying on the hot pavement.
THE END