by Chanel Brenner
Riley is dead
and now, I make eggs
for his brother,
like I used to do
for him.
As I boil the water, I remember
how he loved
to shift them around
in the glass bowl
while they cooled,
watching the light
from the open window
flicker in the water.
Like he was looking
into another world
unknown to me—
somewhere he used to be
or wanted to return to.
Did he know
he was going to die young?
I imagine Riley gliding
like the eggs
through silk water,
back into
the embryo’s shell,
the membrane so sheer
I can almost see through
to where a crack of light
must have beckoned him.
Sometimes, I imagine
him on the other side
of a veiled split
or in another kitchen
staring at eggs
with a knowing
he’s unable to grasp.
Now, I drop the hardboiled eggs
into a bowl
of cold water,
submerge my hand
and sway the ovals
with my fingers.
Their shells clink
like bells
at a faraway church
where people
I don’t know
kneel and bow their heads
to some invisible God.
Chanel Brenner is the author of Vanilla Milk: a memoir told in poems (Silver Birch Press, 2014), a finalist for the 2016 Independent Book Awards and honorable mention in the 2014 Eric Hoffer awards. Her poems have appeared in RATTLE, Sugar House Review, New Ohio Review, Poet Lore, and others.