Candling Eggs
       

At one end of the egg an owl—
her head, her wing stumps clear as fingers,
the black pulse of her heart
beating. In the dark
with only the egg-
glow, its tracery
of veins, its membrane,
I am trying to let go of you.
There is no ritual for raising
the dead. I see how it is—
the sky between us, threads
of sky, soft, pale-
blue flickering in silver
glints off the white
branches that spread, my
hand held up as if I
could stop your fall. It comes
to this—warm egg, my palm
made momentary cradle.
Then the wobbly
rise of her head, her fight
for breath, for flesh. For now,
only my eye enters the thin
scrim of her shell.
My eye that carries you with it,
like a flaw
in my iris the shape of a wing.

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Copyright © 2013 Stephanie Pippin All rights reserved
from The Messenger
University of Iowa Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission