Thinking with Poetry

EGG HORROR POEM

small
white
afraid of heights
whispering
in the cold, dark carton
to the rest of the dozen.
They are ten now.
Any meal is dangerous,
but they fear breakfast most.
They jostle in their compartments
trying for tiny, dark-veined cracksnot
enough to hurt much,
just anything to make them unattractive
to the big hands that reach in
from time to random time.
They tell horror stories
that their mothers,
the chickens,
clucked to themmerengues,
omelettes,
egg salad sandwiches,
that destroyer of dozens,
the homemade angel food cake.
The door opens.
Light filters into the carton,
“Let it be the milk,”
they pray.
But the carton opens,
a hand reaches inonce,
twice.
Before they can even jiggle,
they are alone again,
in the cold,
in the dark,
new spaces hollow
where the two were.
Through the heavy door
they hear the sound of the mixer,
deadly blades whirring.
They huddle,
the eight,
in the cold,
in the dark,
and wait.

Sống

Hãy làm giàu cuộc đời này bằng những chiêm nghiệm
Bằng những bộc bạch chân thành của bóng đêm
Thời gian sẽ trả lời tất cả
Qua những nghịch cảnh và khát khao
Ngâm mình vào sự vô hạn của cuộc đời
Đế lắng nghe âm thanh của tĩnh lặng
Để được tự tại
Hay tự đắc
Rằng ta đã ở nơi này. Hôm nay.