There were days
where she felt like this,
like the weight of an egg
last in its carton.
It wasn’t out of kindness
she kept leaving
the last one for him,
it was a kind of forfeiture.
There was no point
substituting snake
egg, with milk stone,
with last of its kind.
Each morning
she wondered if the day
would pass without
a crack. Each morning
he would wake
asking for another.