2008
Eggs like these

Easter morning
and we haven’t colored eggs in years,
but there are two in the little hollows in the fridge,
pinkish-brown, courtesy of the chickens.
We do our part with magic markers,
and it’s our histories the two eggs
wind up wearing, with the good humor
and perspective on our years of troubles
only time bestows. My egg becomes a face –
mildly curious eyes,
nose too prominent to be attractive,
smile bulging with silver –
all surrounded by ringlets on the verge of blue.
When I was a girl, I tell you,
there were men, women, boys, girls,
cats, dogs, rabbits, birds, and turtles
crowding the refrigerator door.
Though I drew them all myself,
they still surprised me every time
I pulled the handle and the light flashed on.
When you were a boy, you tell me,
you spent an entire hour
painting a Madonna and Child
on an eggshell’s curved surface,
and I’m wondering if today I’ll get to see
the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel
in miniature, but no, it’s Lenin.
I would recognize him anywhere.
And on the egg’s reverse, fireworks bloom
above Red Square and words you outlived
to ridicule: “The victory of Communist labor
will be ours with eggs like these.”