Brooding
By Shelby Handler
My mother, with her long, ringless fingers, couldn’t knot the slippery gizzards to the fishing twine, but she tried. Still, I blamed her. For not being like the other mothers who bought hot dogs from the Albertson’s, sliced them in neat rounds, strung them to the lines of real fishing poles, studded like pink-boiled beads dunked into the dirty creek. The crawdads scurried, swished up silt to seize those lures, appearing eager to be stolen from their homes. Airlifted, plopped into a bucket. Those mothers knew how to trap innocent creatures. Those mothers put stickered notes in their daughters’ lunch sacks, baked cakes that weren’t born from a box. But I turned out fine. Taught myself how to cook, how to bake bread from scratch. Last month, I separated six yolks from their whites, the gold orbs cold in my palms. My mother, in from out of town, peered into the pile, saying, I can see myself in your eggs! I leaned over to see, and the convex portraits multiplied. A brood appeared. A hive comprised of her and me and me and her and her and me.
Shelby Handler is a writer, translator, and organizer with Jewish Voice for Peace. Recent work has appeared in and or is forthcoming in Prairie Schooner, Poetry, The Iowa Review, Beloit Poetry Journal, Redivider, Poetry Northwest, The Journal, Black Warrior Review Online, Four Way Review, and Southern Indiana Review, among others. Shelby received their MFA in poetry at the University of Washington-Seattle, has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize, Best New Poets, and Best of the Net.
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Those faces in the yolks surprised me in the best way. So many images here that will stick with me.
ringless finger starts this poem and we end on broods. such a surprise—dredging things out of their lairs.