Put your thumb in;
make a crazed dent
in a world made of
chalk, white as that

and as dead, because
no rooster was present,
no chick begun like a
wet, unraveling spark.

Think about those
hundred year eggs,
or tea eggs, all the
many ways an egg

can be etched by time
and yet, somehow, too,
preserved. Think what
a shame it is, to break

something so complete;
slide a thumbnail now,
lift off shell and also
membrane, that skin

meant to protect against
predators like you. But
protect what? It’s a dead
letter, a false promise,

something silent that
should not be so inert,
lying there on the plate
naked, without feathers.

For NaBloPoMo and PAD Challenge, Day 17 (prompt: a how-to poem).