I try to remember how holy the egg is—
a yolken place singing up bone and feather

from a texture of water
in the space it takes to hold my tongue;
and I wonder what it is i could birth

from my mouth before dying
the empty shell yellow?

Slow warming of my skin
I watch solid beeswax turn fluid,
scent of almost honey.

So many dead, where there is to do
but turn to the egg, stylus, and flame,

leave waxen trails before dying
the whole egg red—a color of organs.
I draw forks of antlers,

Ukrainian thistle, triangles
symmetrical as wings before dying

the whole egg black.
Polishing off strips of wax,
I rub the egg like the belly of a Buddha—

but what luck is there for the living
when what was my beginning has been covered?


                                      In memory, Diane and Emma