If eggs are hope, why crack them?
“Such is life,” they say.
“We live in a world of omelets.”

Daily, we whisk the gelatinous yellow rivers
of could-have-beens. Stir in mushrooms,
tomatoes, scallions. Let the mixture bubble.

I cry every time I crack the eggs,
as if I were their may-have-been mother,
as if I could do differently.
The eggs are spent every month,
regardless.

The shells cling to my fingers,
licking me with their newborn wetness,
nipping me with their toothy edges.

Of what use are eggshells?
They are mineral and protein,
like broken, ovalescent promises.

We shatter them like porcelain dishes,
stir them into shimmery paste,
glaze a surface we want opalescent.

Or we wash and dry them, grind them into powder,
sprinkle them on the garden, because
maybe the future is grown from eggshells.

Maybe hope is always scrambled, peppered
with the unexpected, salted
with tears, and garnished with cilantro.

Maybe eggs
are a little too personal for me.

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Stephanie Jackson (she/her) has published poems in literary journals, including Tiny Seed, Cosmic Daffodil, and Touchstones, where she’s been a contributing poetry editor. She graduated from Utah Valley University with an English/creative writing degree and spends her time attachment parenting her four munchkins ages 4-14, writing about mental health, and enjoying her local Utah landscape as often as possible.

Twitter: @canoesandcosmos