But it is hard
to scrape away shell and spread a spine
in the same quiet moment, though
they are a single action doubled, a baring
of the secret second self. This flaking skin,
this curve of my hand, this word on a page.
A cradling, a splaying, opposite but unchanged.
One day I will strip each perfectly, the egg
and the book, removing laminae piece by
fragile piece until there is solid flesh
in my palm and a voice dripping on my table.
Ex ovo omnia, it is true, but there is more:
we are born again a thousand times,
we undress unknowingly in the dying light.