I broke open and the green dye had bled
through. And I laughed, "Green Eggs and Ham."
But I wouldn't eat it. Threw it in the juniper
bush and returned to the house
empty-handed. My mother forced my brother to give
me two. He cried. Thirty-six years later,
I write this poem to apologize.
Brother, I hated eggs anyways, though I loved
to peel away the shell, the thin skin within.
Brother, I lied about the hunt and what I found.
If I had to do it all over again, I would've opened
that green egg and handed it to you,
so you could, would, eat it "in a box."
I should simply say: I found an egg
I threw away and took
two of yours anyway.