On the counter at the edge of the sink he cracks an egg:
Rolls it under his palm, separates the shell from the hard-boiled sphere within.
The unthinking deftness of his hand calls to mind
My own body, defenseless under that touch.
He could break me if he would.
I would lie back, offer myself as sacrifice,
Be rolled along the counter, my shell crackling,
My smooth white surface exposed,
My soft yellow yolk close to the surface, waiting
Waiting only for him to bite into it.
I would lose myself in his mouth.
I could let go of the hard shell.
I could become the perfect round fullness of promise.
May 10, 2005