You have to guess what it is,
 
I said, and got to watch
your curiosity flare and settle
like a pilot light
as you put your hand in my sweatshirt pocket
and touched cold curve,
dry, firm, finely pebbled.
You smiled, then
held the egg between us on your palm.
Familiar again, but magicked
with that brief strangeness.
Bewilderment, stay. Keep
us. Not yet resolved. Not yet afraid.
Take a big breath and hold us,
for with and within bodies
we meet this world. Whippy cords
of weeds, grit sweated to skin,
smell of roses and gasoline. I know
wildness could feed me, though
I’ve learned to flinch from it, retreat
to matched socks and a stocked
pantry. Husband, for now
you tuck the boiled egg into your pack.
You’ll stay out all night telling the stars,
tapping on that endlessness they crack.