fragile 

i build all my furniture from eggs:
cold white porcelain ovals 
perfectly stacked together.
kneeling on the ground
i lay them in rows-- 
talk to them ask them 
which other egg they want 
to lay next to.
you have to be very careful with 
a house full of egg furniture.
only one person can sit on that chair
& the sofa requires you to 
lower yourself slowly--
listen for shifting so that they 
don't all spiral apart.
i hold the furniture together
with promises & sometimes encouragement.
i tell the eggs that through this
they might learn how to 
hold an embryo & hatch.
i say imagine a whole couch 
bursting with animals 
& each egg has its own dream 
as to what creature it wants to hold.
i lie to them & say that some humans
are even born like this--
that i emerged from a kitchen table 
my mother & father meticulously built together.
i am creative. i teach
an egg to be a light bulb & another egg
to be a windowsill. i suggest stained glass
& the eggs try to make their shells
into more beautiful colors.
this doesn't work. 
my house is bright egg shell everywhere.
i lay down in the bed of eggs 
& move my fingers across them.
promising to keep them all warm. 
none of them will hatch but 
i have to pretend they will 
so that the eggs don't lose hope.
it's hard to have a lover stay the night
because i always have to explain the eggs--
have to tell them why they have
to be careful as they climb into bed.
i want to meet someone who isn't afraid 
of my furniture-- who wants
to run fingers gently over the surface
& imagine themselves 
submerged in golden yolk.
every once in awhile i'm reckless
& i pluck one egg from the structure 
sending the whole thing tumbling apart.
i know i should but a particular egg
stares at me & seems to say 
that it will be the living one--
that it holds a great bird 
or a lizard or a sibling.
smashed eggs all across the floor. 
i clean them up with my bare hand
so as to feel the fragments & the yolk
before rebuilding