Eggs bloom best in the morning. “I know,” the mother says, “what it means to be bloodied and solemn. It helps to be both at once, or neither.” An egg shell shatters into hemispheres. I like to hold the yolk between my fingers, smooth it into my nail beds like linen. “Blood can fork into more than what meets the eye. Into something useful, like a mouth,” she says. The eggs blink at me. I thought I’d dreamt them, bodies grown botanic.