Easter

baby-eating-eggs

I was too busy this Easter to blog.  So here is an Easter Egg for everyone out there.  A bit late, but it’s a good one.  Two pieces of advice hard won for your life, if you will listen.  Don’t force kids to eat what they don’t want, it only turns food into a battleground.  Food should be wrapped in memories of love, not war.  And don’t shout at them for dropping stuff.

Eggs; by Susan Wood

-o0o-
Morning broke like an egg
on the kitchen floor and I hated
them, too, eggs, how easily they broke
and ran, yellow insides spilling out, oozing

and staining, the flawed
beneath what’s beautiful. And I hated
my father, the one ****
in the henhouse, who laid the plate

on the table and made me
eat, who told me not to get up
until I was done, every
bite. And I hated how I gagged and cried, day

after day, until there was no time
left and he’d give in and I’d go off
to school like that, again, hungry.
But why did I hate eggs

so much? Freud, old banty rooster, who
knew a thing or two about such things, might say
I hated my self, hated the egg
growing in secret deep inside my body,

the secret about to be spilled
to the world, and maybe I did.
Or maybe it’s the way the egg
repeats itself again and again, a perfect

oval every time, the way I found myself
furious, standing by my own child’s bed
holding a belt, and hit, and saw her face
dissolve in yolk. But that doesn’t say

enough about why we hoard
our hurts like golden eggs and foolishly
wait for them to hatch, why
we faced each other across the table,

my father and I, and fought
our battles over eggs and never fought
with them, never once picked up
those perfect ovals and sent them singing

back and forth across the room, the spell
broken like shells, until we were
covered with them, our faces golden
and laughing, both of us beautiful and flawed.

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