The poet clawed her

way into sand,

invaded the nest of

turtle eggs and

removed 13 round eggs to

make an omelette.

 

The poet used a knife

to open the raw eggs

because a sharp tap on

a metal pot rim just wouldn’t

do the trick.

 

Then the poet chose four

words to describe her

egg feast.

 

I ate with attention, whimsy,

devotion and respect, she said.

 

Her words stopped me,

stopped my mind.

 

I inhaled into a new reality—one

where a woman who has poured forth

poetry on creatures as diverse as owls

and deer and grasshoppers—a poet I have

revered for years…

This poet clawed her way into sand.

 

This poet used a knife

to open a coven of raw eggs.

 

And the poet’s four words, chosen

to pull me into the orbit

of her world, chosen to justify—

with whimsy sprinkled into the mix

like a condiment—have instead failed me,

forever more.

 

No, I said to myself, no.

Yes, I say now and to all who care

to hear, I will draw a strong black line

between life and

needless death.