before you cracked her,
everything was imaginary.

among sisters, she was a dozen
strong. one of a dozen, cunning
grenades, cage-free
and cagey,
painted in porcelain
camouflage.

you could crush her,
and who knows what might have spilled out.

she was the stuff of bonemeal
if bones masqueraded
as white sidewalk chalk,
unwrapped, unused,
laying claim to
the line never drawn.

so then you cracked her,
and everything that was concealed
emptied out at once.

among shrapnel, she was
a plaster cast, hugging
in desperation to the negative space:
a non-portrait of
unfertilized yolk and runny
meringue,
an unlikeness.

you thought she would be
explosive.
you imagined your fingers the fuse,
and that she would erupt
outwards.

but she was the stuff of bonemeal,
and she collapsed quietly.
she took in with her the
weight of keratin and
vacuuming air and
unconscionable
sunlight.

and she showed you,
once you’d exhausted
her ammunition,
that she was all
concavity.

© 2017 Stellular Scribe