Fists of spring, they bring my heart back:
Plastic grass and crosses and my brother's name
In crayon on the tiny white walls of eggshells.
Resurrection books in white baskets on the windowsill.
We reached over each other's arms for the wax crayon
And tipped our stools, dipping our fingers
In the pink and green oceans my mother kept in cups, the shells bobbing,
Tiny white babies bathed in beads of vinegar.
After dipping them, we shelled the eggs.
Waited at the fridge for them in their cartons to cool.
Then that sound against the counter:
The quick flick of a wrist
The small shells cracking under our small, pressing fingers.
We've killed something, I said
As my brother's name broke to pieces in his hand,
The shiny white body in his palm.
In the pictures we grip our baskets.
White knuckled in our Easter clothes,
Pastel fingerprints on our faces,
We smile like maniacs.
This poem was the result of long hours spent looking through my mother's photo albums. Moments in personal history can look quite different with time.