When you still were young, you collected eggs.
Snatched them from the incubator to check
embryos with a flashlight. If alive
after seven days, blood vessels spidered
from their center as the eyes of Christ did
on the cross. If dead, the air sacs ballooned
to the top, resembling Saturn. Blood rings
of what could have been, a chicken hawk,
even a crane, orbiting their own breath.
Then, the first stillborn was not as heavy
as the first hatchling. You never could bury
a bird without considering the weight
of earth it displaced. You recall the sound
of shells breaking, matching the spade snapping bone.
Alexander Zitzner is a poetry reader for the Adroit Journal, as well as the Co-Vice President of the West Central region. In his final year at UW-Eau Claire, he is the Editor-In-Chief of their literary magazine, NOTA, as well as an advocate for the Chippewa Valley Writers Guild.