Egg hunt with Malice

I hid it in the yard
beneath the wysteria
coiled like a snake
behind the perpetually falling flowers

I buried it in the sand
along the driveway
I buried it like a body
limbless and cold

I balanced it on the high branch
of a knobby oak
it sat unsteady, afraid
it's feet wouldn't reach the floor

I placed it beneath a stone,
saw a small crack,
heard its 17th century Salem
whisper, "more weight"

I put it in your hand
gold and glittering
waited until I could see
the nails rising from your palm

A Reponse to Jason Ballard

He spoke in strings
that tied our eyes
like windless kites
to his pregnant tongue.

He whittled words
from softwood scripture,
licked splinters, and
sighed alabaster sighs

He coughed out poems,
novellas, whole volumes,
collected works. The books
fell to his feet and in the fire

the billowing smoke then formed a wind
that blew the bulbous kites from our skulls.