The crisis passes,
leaves you

broken open, interior exposed,
egg-slick-sticky.

Gold and white
and black opal shimmer

that cannot
be put away

once it’s out —
it can so easily be soiled

and spoiled.  You have
no shell, no protection

for yourself
anymore.

Untrustworthy gods
delight to see you struggle — 

that’s the point, they insist.
You’ll always lose,

but to struggle
is to move on.

And, they promise,
there will be more gold,

more white, more 
opalescent shine

but this time, you’ll 
put the shine on —

it won’t be what you were
born with, but it will gleam.