Poem — Elizabeth Smither

Carol’s eggs

 

Each girl child contains her eggs.
Carol keeps under her bed
one dozen in a carton, safe
from plundering friends and flatmates.

Eggs make a meal, a girl is eggs.
Poached or scrambled, eggs are quick.
In the dark, their yolks like eyes
lie encased, enclosed in shell.

On her stomach, Carol slides her hand
and pulls out the carton, counts
two white eggs and five brown
selects a brown, and slides it back

like a secret wish, a future portent.
Now there are sons and no one to steal
she gazes at them in the fridge
takes out four and whips an omelette.

 

Elizabeth Smither

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