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Disposal

I cracked open a tiny white egg
	and I gasped
		at the flash of red—
	I watched the slimy sliver of blood
		follow the yolk into the bowl,
			clinging to it, desperately,
				bleeding into the white. 

And my room-mate has run into the kitchen,
	and I’m holding the bowl before her,
	and I’m saying, “It must be an embryo,
		it must be a chick
			that couldn’t live because
			it wasn’t kept warm.”
And she is a biology major,
	and my hands are shaking,
	and I want an explanation
		or forgiveness
	for spilling this half-formed life
		into my blue plastic bowl.

“The yolk is the placenta,” I say,
	“but most eggs we eat were never fertilized—
		right?
They’re not supposed to be fertilized,
	this isn’t supposed to happen,
		this must have been a mistake,
	I’ve never seen it happen before.”

And I’m bringing the bowl to the sink
	and wondering how we can get the placenta
	without fertilization.
  I’m thinking about abortion
  	and a hen in a sterile white hen-house screaming,
  	“No, not that one!”
  as I turn on the cold water
  	and wash it down the drain.
  			-September 8, 2001