Alisa Gordaneer
the egg divided
the time erkki was coming
back from war with six friends, all hungry
and then the miraculous: a farmer,
they gathered around a small fire, moss and birch
to keep him warm as he held the egg, lowered it
into their pot, a collective breath
as it steamed, the brown shell cracked and rolled.
then seven pieces with his hunting knife, each man
balancing his fragile share, the white soft as
the thighs of wives at home
if they could walk that far.
seven men, chewing
until the taste of war was gone, become
a sliver of yolk
yellow like the sun hanging low
at solstice noon.
