Breasts and eggs  





There was a time I thought I’d have to choose
between my breasts and my eggs



or between working on breaststrokes
                or stroking breasts



                                                                                                                                                                                                                 But here I am, bare feet on a cool stone floor



separating shells of eggs with the webbing of my toes.



The smell of bubbling hot oil curling between us



A life built not from repetition but from bent lines.