The poet clawed her
way into sand,
invaded the nest of
turtle eggs and
removed 13 round eggs to
make an omelette.
The poet used a knife
to open the raw eggs
because a sharp tap on
a metal pot rim just wouldn’t
do the trick.
Then the poet chose four
words to describe her
egg feast.
I ate with attention, whimsy,
devotion and respect, she said.
Her words stopped me,
stopped my mind.
I inhaled into a new reality—one
where a woman who has poured forth
poetry on creatures as diverse as owls
and deer and grasshoppers—a poet I have
revered for years…
This poet clawed her way into sand.
This poet used a knife
to open a coven of raw eggs.
And the poet’s four words, chosen
to pull me into the orbit
of her world, chosen to justify—
with whimsy sprinkled into the mix
like a condiment—have instead failed me,
forever more.
No, I said to myself, no.
Yes, I say now and to all who care
to hear, I will draw a strong black line
between life and
needless death.