Egg Candling, 1957

Now that the children have grown,
afternoons are long;
going against her husband’s wishes­,
in the pleasant
solitude of a four-hour shift, she is
gainfully employed.

Delicate, like babies once cradled,
these thin shells,
porous to a probing beam of light,
whisper inner secrets,
murky seas revealing a shadow life
for her to decipher.

Her Grade A eye separating whole
yolks from seeping,
the blood mottled from the clear;
a St. Peter tasked
with responsibility, she judiciously
condemns the rotten.

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