Hollow

Listen to Sandra Marchetti read her piece:

Cracking eggs open—
click into bowl,

bowl into yolk,
eye into eye,

I told that oven story,
how I forgot to light it,

and then I finally lit up in it—
gas singeing…

then a swallowing
crunch.

The fruit of my throat
constricted on the fruit

of the apple’s skin,
the curled red

non-viscous wrap;
I laughed

and threw my neck
over the sink.

Tried to take water—
to take your eyes on me—

the eggs in the bowl
already loosed, ‘peeled,’

the peel turning in me,
wet and covering.

I stopped,
lurched

and the red popped
out, chewed choke,

with champagne meat
still inside.

You turned, gave
me water;

I coughed
and spoke low—

“Fine, fine; don’t I
sound…?”

You glanced into
the eggs—

the glaze of the bowl,
the glaze

of viscous centers
existing.

“You finished cracking
them. You finished anyway.”

Nodding, I wanted you to
believe I was a miracle,

as I believe you are
a miracle.