She never came—rusty-dirt
color the size of a warning just
a crush in the cotton panties,
I was not pregnant (te dijé), but
you wanted to know. What happened
the last time I had missed three
months of bloated warmth,
salty red-tide.
Sometimes I see the eggs like
smallish, grey, pebbles clattering
through me. Is a dead tumor more
fibrous than an egg? If a tumor is
there, does an egg lose its place
in line?
On the back of my retina, I can see
my great grandmother, standing. She
is within the tin, plywood, and metal
mesh of a coop. Hands akimbo.
Scrutinizing the hen that can’t
cluck anymore.
She lifts the fatty bag of feathers and rolls
the cheek of her palm over the
pelvic floor before she crouches
down and says to me, “Hold this.”
And I do. I do. Hold it firm because
I am more frightened of a smack,
and popping hot grease, and her
not loving me, than I am
when she takes the short razor from
her french roll of hair, and slits open
the pelvic floor of the hen. She rolls
her hands around its body until the
eggs roll dryly over the ground.
And. Then. And Now. I was. I am.
More afraid of not having eggs
because of being raised in a history
of hunger. Than I ever was of that.