There, sat at the dinner table.
With head down, hair over her eyes
Mind void, both bone and body unable.
The patient remains etherized
Like a fragile child, a petrified shell.

From the kitchen comes sound
Brothers open each cupboard
For not a knife has been found.
‘You can’t beat eggs without a blade’
Moans the youngest, the disillusioned
Each morning eggs must be made.
Yet the bones at the table remain afraid.

And on the roof, Mother silently screams
like the daughter does downstairs.
In the womb, does God deem
Who will thrive, and who despairs?
Or does the omnipotent
the ever loving
even care?

Yet the bones stay motionless.
Like the captured moments of a still life.
Her ribs protrude, pressed tight to her skin.
‘You can’t beat eggs without a sharp Knife!’
They do not care, her brothers, her kin.

She was raised on flickering screens
Who told her she could not eat.
Force Fed on artificial machines
she attempted to fade away
right there on that very seat.

And as I watched her
I realized my mistake.
No one needs to beat an egg with a knife.
For shells are fragile
For shells are fake.
You can choke them
and throw them
Make them dance on strings.
Parenthood cannot be revoked
You can love a sibling, yet not know them
And even in silence, one can sing.
So we decided to beat them with stones
as I watched her at the table, that pile of bones.