Ab Ovo

by Kirsten Reneau

James Kern

I play with the yolk-stained eggshells my mother leaves broken and empty on the kitchen counter. She tells me she never eats eggs; too many calories. My fingers search for my ribcage, look for a bone to cling to; I don’t realize I am biting the inside of my lip until I taste copper, blood. The shell rolls off the counter and shatters against the floor.

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Kirsten Reneau is currently working on her MFA in creative nonfiction at the University of New Orleans. A Pushcart nominee, her work can be seen in or is forthcoming in Threepenny Review, Hobart, Hippocampus Magazine, Alaska Quarterly Review, Santa Fe Writers Project Quarterly, and others.