Candling

Short and sort of defeated even then,

the father of our grade’s only twins

came to class to talk egg production,

proud of his farm filling carton after carton.

He showed us a movie where eggs flowed

on a conveyor belt, illumined for a moment

from behind, dwarf stars with amorphous hearts.

If a chick curled like a carving in a Gothic church

was revealed, or a blood spot, or a blank space

where the clean yolk should have shone, the egg

was removed by workers wearing white cotton gloves.

None of us guessed how hard the years would be—

one twin slipping in the long sleep of overdose

and all our youth fading as soon as it flared.

In the classroom, though, the windows

are cranked out to catch May breath.

The room is dark. We anticipate.

Hair already grey, hands nervous and sincere,

he starts the VCR. Both his boys live,

grave hazel eyes green-flecked and often lit

with a smile they don’t have to show to share.