Entrails

I dropped an egg on the kitchen floor
and finally, I understood the heart-
break. There it was—splattered
on the tile, like
an insect on a windshield, with
bits of shell floating in the lifeless
amoeba of white and yolk. The two
halves of the fragile
casing remained relatively
intact, guts dripping, adding to
the mess.

I tore a stretch of paper
towels to sop
the accident and felt the viscera
ooze through the thin
cloth, tainting my hands.

Undeterred, I gathered the tiny
bits and soaked up the spillage;
and after I had tossed
the waste and my hands
were clean, I stepped on that
spot and my soles struggled to
let go.