There once was a girl with eggs in her eyes. Hard shell, her. 
They said she was really a lizard. I saw her on my ceiling, 
once. She was ten feet long. I found her in my bathtub, 
once. No bigger than a hand. Years passed and she never 
had a son. Years passed, never a daughter. Years of the 
island swelling with songs of a beautiful woman, What a 
waste, what a waste. Still, there were always whispers. 
Her eggs, her eggs. Mālama pono ʻoe, in hushed tones, o 
lele ʻoe i ka pali. She never bore children, but one day a 
trail of eggs snaked the village. Bones appeared. In their 
pots, in their pockets, in their mouths as they slept. Which 
came first—the girl or the lizard? Dream after dream of 
her splashing ponds. Out of shell, out of sight. Crack a 
lizard's eggs and you will fall off a cliff. What a waste, what 
a waste.