Haibun for Sky, with Eggshell

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Half of a robin’s egg on the driveway, a fragment of sky without sun. Your spine curls as if tracing that piece of shell, fetal, in sleep. Dandelions ripen into white puffs you love, sun to moon. You skip or run instead of walking. A kiss for the cat, warm oval on the rug. The steam of brown sugar oatmeal served with a teaspoon. Ladybugs with too many spots flock to your room. These confections sum to beyond Andromeda. Another universe where your arms are so full, they make a star map from an eggshell. Anatomy: levator palpebrae superioris, chordae tendinae—

tugging, the ropes pull
open a drawbridge. Heart. Eyes.
I watch skies with you.


By Elisabeth Preston-Hsu

Elisabeth Preston-Hsu’s writing has appeared in Bellevue Literary Review, Chicago Quarterly Review, Dillydoun Review, and elsewhere. She was runner-up in North American Review’s Hearst Poetry Prize 2022, judged by Natalie Diaz. She is a physician in clinical practice in Atlanta, Georgia. Find her on Instagram @writers.eatery.