By: Corey Cook
You lean against Nana’s charcoal grey Taurus –
a monochromatic reflection of the midday sky.
Hands in pockets. Hat pulled down. And watch
your siblings search the boggy yard for “eggs.”
Empty pantyhose containers heavy with nickels.
Nickels gleaned from Nana’s walks in search
of redeemable bottles and cans. “Eggs” hidden
underneath the rusty tractor. In the recesses of its
engine. In the loose woodpile stacked beside
the old chicken coop – now the sugarhouse. You
spot a white “egg” tucked in the belt of last
summer’s scarecrow and know that the plastic
shell is much bigger than the fetus in the bony
cradle of your hips. The father your driver’s ed
teacher. Who asked you to drive to a convenience
store in Brattleboro on Friday. Forty-five minutes
away. Gave you money for a pregnancy test. Told
you he would lose his job if you kept it after you
returned from the restroom. That his wife would
leave him as you watched the clerk inside the store.
Sucking up clots of cobwebs and undefined insect
bodies in the display window with a wet/dry vac.