Eggs

I can feel the moon between my thumbs,
I want to tap it gently against a smooth slate of granite
and watch the yolk decant onto the tops of my feet,
into the crevices between my toes like street grates,
and into the floorboards,
a dilated, yellow pupil in the sludge of the aqueous humor.
You are a moon I always want to carry between my thumbs;
I love you and I love you here with me,
I want our bodies to merge together like runny eggs,
and I want to take ownership of the room, purloin all the air,
the sound we heard in that room
upon the moment that our souls first converged
and fasten it all fondly,

into the hem of my heart.

-anna sluder

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