bird by bird

Your feet dangling from the kitchen counter, I show you how to carefully crack an egg. The yellow yolk plops into the flour, The whites of your eyes get big at the sight. I place your small fingers on the whisk, And I place my fingers on top of yours. I hold the bowl steadily, And together we mix. But before we crack the egg, Before your feet dangle off the kitchen counter, Before there is a you, And before I am fully me. I'll stand alone barefoot on cold bathroom tiles. I'll light a candle and play a Brandi Carlile song, While filling a syringe with a cold liquid I can't pronounce. And I'll pierce it through my skin and into my belly. For weeks I'll bruise and bloat, My heart will feel heavy yet hopeful. I'll light so many candles, And fill so many syringes. I'll do this for you and for us, So that many years later when the time is right, I can watch your eyes wide with wonder, As you learn how to crack an egg.

by Faith Shearin Love is cheaper now: fifty cent stuffed animals, deflated balloons that declare I love you but not that much. Chocolates melting in their thin plastic hearts. Holidays are arbitrary pressure, aisles of red light. I am sad the day after anything but expired love is worse than old Halloween or faded Easter. The bins of passed over kittens and hollow chocolate flowers like stubs from a movie I saw with a boy who forgot my name. The one who told jokes that weren't funny, the one who was handsome but dumb. All that old love on sale: less valuable but never free.