Stephanie Bryant Anderson and Andrea Spofford

You Can’t Make an Omelette Without Breaking a Few Eggs

A window with yellow curtains opens
to a field of rolling hills. The window was invented
much like I was made. I put it there like I put 
the field there. I've put a hinge there
—and a hammer for the window. 
There's no lake nearby, but the air
smells of water. I'm young, but this
is not a dream. I'm waiting on rabbits & eggs, painted
eggs from a carton. Waiting on the eggs
to reveal their insides. The window
is ready to close, because I am ready to
close it. A hammer for the eggs. The moon
tries to enter, but I'm closing the window now. 
I am alone. I don't know what any of this means, except
I prefer small spaces. Ghosts have covered everything. 
I rearrange the furniture, but nothing changes. 
The vision is always just a window & a field 
& a hammer & I am alone
to imagine what’s inside eggs, 
what’s hidden beyond the golden
halo of yolk. Everywhere there are secrets, 
ticking clocks counting down, breath held in walls. 
Even closets have containers,
smaller places, even smaller still, 
places where things can hide.
Imagine what’s beyond the window, 
the frame just a space
for filling. Imagine I am the moon, outside, 
and my hands inside, the hammer just my fingers. 
I hinge open & closed.
I am the lungs of the house,
necessary, waving, 
yellow curtains in the breeze.