By Sylvie Kandé
Love is a slope
the egg mused while tumbling down
the minute distance that kept them apart
rolling in effect to its doom
Just brushing against the stone causes it to crack
From its wounds white slowly issues forth
yolk gushes out of this gash
begins to run down the oblong belly
Wholeness a thing of the past
it’s broken viscous
still begging for this love
that’s neither granted nor denied
As for the stone it’s at ease in its mass
feeling nothing nothing at all
from the pitiful sticky sacrifice
performed atop its carapace
which will never bespatter its heart
*Translated from the French, Translated By Nancy Naomi Carlson