Ode to the eggsafter Pablo Neruda
Fields,
beaches,
ponds,
and trees
sing
as you
fall
on twigs
and bridles,
feathers,
moss,
sludge,
and sandbanks.
You hug
in groups
of seven,
thirteen,
or fifty-three.
Fragile
and immobile,
you lie
side by side,
defying
your
hungry
predators.
Brown
patches
or turquoise
patterns
become
a soft
embrace,
an act
of camouflage
that protects
your
burgeons
of life
from
our greedy
hands
and
growling
stomachs—
nothing
can stop
our appetite
for
the
vital
protein
running
inside
the elliptical
shape
of your chalky
beige
shells.
In the protected
space
of your
nesting
nature,
your viscous
substance
creates—
a
beating
heart,
followed
by
blood
vessels,
a tail bud,
wings and legs,
eyes,
brains,
beaks and claws,
feathers and scales.
After days
or weeks
or months,
you crack—
in the fields,
and in the trees,
on beaches
and in the reeds,
creatures
crawl,
squawk
and walk
tasting
the air
and the
nourishing
juice
of
food.
Now
rack
and ruin
you stay
behind
as little
dirty
white dots,
composing
compost,
sand
and soil.
Carried
along by
flowing
water,
you become
fertile
ground,
sediments,
and the source
of a new
cycle
of
life.
Morning glory
For K.P.
I was queuing this morning to buy bread
at the boulangerie, when I saw a
man dragging his dog; he had done a shit,
the man grabbed it, and I watched how he
absorbed his disgust as he felt the waste’s
warmth come through the thin plastic layer shielding
his skin from the shit, which now stunk
inside the blue bag. Further down the street,
I saw the man stop by a tree. It seemed
tired, its leaves already in free fall,
leaning against a brick wall covered in
moss. Now the man looked around
anxiously, his brown eyes staring but not
seeing me nor the tree; his hands shaking
faintly in his khaki jacket too big
for his body. He dropped the blue plastic
bag full of shit on the ground, looking around
one more time. I wished he had left the shit
alone. Now it was our own blue shit
that I saw, soiling
the earth by the copper beech tree.
