Mother carries it all for me.
My anger, my unresolved trauma.
And I have a lot of unresolved trauma,
and I’m always getting angry,
blaming her for little things like
marrying my father
and bearing me life without permission.
And when I’m speeding and slam on the brakes
our carton of eggs breaks into contents,
spilled shell mixed with yolk
dripping between seats.
I’m yelling at her, Why did you leave
the eggs like that, unsecured and weak?
I was already late to therapy so she
told me not to worry, it will be cleaned.
Mother carries father’s rage,
my rage, my rising codependence.
The least I can do is carry in groceries,
one trip to show her how strong I am,
plastic bag handles twisted like piano wires
cutting off forearm circulation.
Glass jars thudding on the kitchen counter.
Her kindness makes me regret so heavily,
makes me pity the men who take no accountability.
Maybe someday she will yell at me. For driving too fast
and racing against yellows. For having no patience.
That night I saw my mother in the kitchen,
salvaging the remains, rinsing unbroken eggs carefully
and putting them, one by one, back into place.
Matthew Zhao is a writer from Michigan. His first poetry collection, King of Song, has been a finalist in the National Poetry Series, a semifinalist in the Word Works Washington Prize, Longleaf Press Book Prize, and Anthony Hecht Poetry Prize, and longlisted in the Lost Horse Press Idaho Prize. His poetry appears or is forthcoming in Mississippi Review, swamp pink, Four Way Review, Frontier Poetry, Summerset Review, Indianapolis Review, Impossible Task, and Shade Journal. He is a PhD student at Florida State University.