Why limit yourself to an egg 
when, already, you’re going so far 
off script? A rib, a word—
people have been born of better  
stuff. But let us not assume 
that someone else will lift us up 
(They won’t.) 
lest we be yoked to sin or
sacrifice. I’ll make mine 
of bruises. Peel purpled circles 
from shins, watch them 
take shape. Palmsful of plums 
plump up, wriggling 
fruit-flesh, fish in the caul. Let them 
swim a minute. We are our own feast. 
Nibble small rips in the skin. 
When the ocean drips out, lap it up 
gladly. Swaddle it in tongue. Let 
salty seeds settle between teeth so we can 
sing them into pearls. Yes. Let us 
begin again so sweetly
tendered, plumbed from the color of healing.