The Poem I Wrote for Our Life Together

Born on a bed of eggshells, I broke them
by virtue of my body’s weight, by moving.
Soon I grew used to their give and crack.

My parents fed me eggshells. My tongue
licked the hard protective bloom. My teeth
ground down thin layers of calcium carbonate.

Those proteins were all I had. With a brush
and albumen glue, I painted the crystals
from crushed shells on the mold of my body.

The clothes I made creased and fractured
at my elbows and knees, split when I sat,
so I learned to stay still, straight leg standing.

Beneath me, the eggshell floor splintered
with each step. Helpless, I called my lover
who climbed through the jagged holes

we called windows. I could have predicted
he would break everything he touched
and then accuse me of carelessness, and he did.

I felt myself cleave under him in the way
I was taught to want. The membranes
of my body collapsing, reminding me of birth.

Our gentle thrashing destroyed the house.
I no longer cared for the bed, the clothes
whose delicate remnants I stuffed in my mouth.

After, I woke up naked, alone, and hungry.
Of course, I wear regular clothes and live
in a regular house, my diet varies, and I leave

when I please. I was never crushed, not
like this, but the eggshells say what I mean:
that no matter how careful I am, grief will come.