i have lived through unopened windows
glass panes where dreams glide
mother’s arms that held no cradle
and father’s unburdened shoulder
and longing that scrapes and gouges these painted walls
i have within me a hollow that consumes
premature things, things squirming underneath the sheath,
punctured too soon; where hunger eats hunger,
where i eat my own hands, my own feet,


            There is a cracked egg on my kitchen floor.