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Samantha Leigh Futhey

BPR 48 | 2021

And who would want a basket
     dripping with yolk, the viscous
mess of whites? What is the basket
     made of? Woven
sweetgrass? Plastic threads
     from Thailand? Is it full
of pastel tissue paper
     or spider webs? And what if
you hold some eggs
     back, hold them in your mouth
and swallow them whole—does
     that mean you cannot love
or that you can save love
     for everyone, including
yourself? What color are those eggs—
     sepia nostalgia, the speckled
ocean in your lover’s eyes
     when you say
we need to talk? And if swallowed
     whole, do they sit
like pebbles in your stomach,
     a cairn to point you
in the right direction? Or do they
     dissolve like the ones shed
in a woman’s blood? And to merge
     women with eggs—is that too
convenient? Does this trap women
     as vessels to fill? And what
to fill their baskets with besides eggs?
     Fire? And that
fire, who keeps it
     burning? And who
will I palm out
     my flames to, the burnt shells
I forgot to save
     from the house fires
smoldering inside me?