The egg waxes, the yellow white
of moon marrow, of stretched skin,
opaque with the dull stain of life blood speckling
the outer shell, enveloping the hard white.
How many hours spent caressing
that vessel, an echoic chamber of kicking limbs
and wings. Those shuddering beings
inside that might violently breach the womb wall
in heady dissonance with their flurries
of thrash and thrust.
How many nights spent imagining wet black webs
and sharp egg teeth, multiplying heart beats.
(Too many beats and so many beaks
bent on devouring the thick orange yolk
of mother sun.)
Leda broods over the nest, battens down
the swan feathers and thick sheep wool,
pacing away the long weeks while
waiting for the inevitable hatching
of all those frenzied limbs.