Egg by C.G. Hanzlicek

Post Series: Poetry Thursday


by C.G. Hanzlicek


I’m scrambling an egg for my daughter.

“Why are you always whistling?” she asks.

“Because I’m happy.”

And it’s true,

Though it stuns me to say it aloud,

There was a time when I wouldn’t

Have seen it as my future.

It’s partly a matter

Of who is there to eat the egg:

The self fallen out of love with itself

Through the tedium of familiarity,

Or this little self,

So curious, so hungry,

Who emerged from the woman I love,

A woman who loves me in a way

I’ve come to think I deserve,

Now that it arrives from outside me.

Everything changes, we’re told,

And now the changes are everywhere:

The house with its morning light

That fills me like a revelation,

The yard with its trees

That cast a bit more shade each summer,

The love of a woman

That both is and isn’t confounding,

And the love

Of this clamor of questions at my waist.

Clamor of questions,

You clamor of answers,

Here’s your egg.

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