Robin Eggs – Alec Prevett

Gently,

hammer in hand,

my brother places

robin eggs in a blue

row, says

If they haven’t

hatched by now,

they won’t.

Lifting

hammer,

junelight

on brow,

he reminds me

of Heracles

raising his club

at a great foe—

a son, a

wife. Wait,

I say,

Watch this.

I take

the eggs, toss

them all

into my

dim mouth,

hold them

safely if

only for a

moment. Then,

the unmistakable

sound:

someone

walking down

a gravel path

when there is

no light about,

something

giving in

for good.

Yolk bursts

from my lips.

I swallow.