to my parents I get the feeling, still, that you two think he is a fragile egg & I am a rock, unbreakable, unshakable, golden. That’s what our name means, from the German: gold stone. Let me tell you, I was not as resilient as you thought. I was not an adult trapped in a child’s body. I was a child trapped in a child’s body, unable to move. Why can’t you see I crack & cry & break & bleed? I am the egg. He is the fox, scratching at the tiny doorway, looking for more, hungry.
Phil Goldstein is a journalist and writer who has been living in the Washington, D.C, area for more than a decade. His debut collection, How to Bury a Boy at Sea, is forthcoming from Stillhouse Press, and his poetry has been nominated for a Best of the Net award and is forthcoming or has been published in The Laurel Review, Rust+Moth, Two Peach, 2River View, Awakened Voices, The Indianapolis Review and elsewhere. By day, he works as a senior editor for Manifest, a content marketing agency.