The egg is skinned in water, born before
the body. Salt as a nut, bare with blood,
the shallows pink with ache: be arable,
bear me towards the water, let me have
you. I freeze you: cell-throb & wake me
inside the afterlife. On that day, death did
come as a white ram. Egg, we slit its throat.
Copyright © 2018 Nomi Stone. “On Freezing My Eggs” originally appeared in The Arkansas International. Used with permission of the author.