We learned to walk on eggshells
in a house made of glass.
Amber frozen liquid capable of combusting
with one crack.
We were mujeres who wore heels
to avoid letting our weight touch the floor.
My grandmother taught me
to bury the eggs shells
and their interior.
My mother taught me
to tie knots in secret to avoid
another life buried by these walls.
The house was a body
that required limpia after limpia,
always searching the falling yolk,
for a sign of mal de ojo.
We practiced clutching discarded shells—
draped them like pearl decor—
learning to protect this exterior
from father’s rusted hands.
When I fry a huevo
I’m mystified by the whites—
translucence being transmuted—
the unseen becoming shapes
in the clouds tracing the sun.
I still bury shells after boiling,
knowing if given the chance
I’d still crush the white
into pearl dust
between my teeth
swallowing a speck of protection
hoping to transform the unborn inside.