eggs

i told you "do not worry"
when you asked why i took 
all the chicken eggs out to the edge
of the field. love is about what we bear
for one another in the dark. 
you tell me that is wrong.
that it is about what we share. i have never
known this. still, my father does not
look at the family bank account.
all my life i've overheard him
say, "please tell me there's money."
then, once, my father helped me
burry a rib i lost. we said nothing but i knew
he was promising not to tell mom.
i had cracked an egg in the pan
& a toy car had fallen out. sizzled in
the hot oil. i opened another & found
a tiny rubber chicken. another, a key.
none of them with the sweet golden yolks
we're used to. each a panic room.
i dispose of the eggs. i do not know
what i'll tell you happened to them.
i visit the chickens & ask what is wrong.
they stare at me as if i am the one
who laid a dozen knickknacks. 
i admit to them, "i have found myself 
doing the same." i don't want to give
the same little glowing pieces of my body
anymore. i want to be useless. 
i want to sleep for a year & wake up
inside one of the eggs. no egg tooth to help me.
waiting for the flick of a wrist. the side
of a bowl. of course, you ask me
"where did you go?" i tell you the truth
about the trinkets. about the flock. 
we go out to the field together. 
you see a pile of broken eggs. their yolks
sticky in the dead corn stalks, earth still waiting
for the spring till. you ask, "what was wrong
with them?" i search. no toy car. 
no mini rubber chicken. no key.