Egg
Periwinkle garden,
flowers folded
into a dumpling.
I sit on the bottom floor
of a blessing
before it builds and blooms,
before its face has distinction,
expression, perfect individuality.
Low ache of forming,
wandering cold plains, over icy lakes
through dead forests and caves.
Almost ripe,
platelets connecting, composing
a singular solid substance. Then
out of the egg and into the vast ocean,
forward, shell collapsing, imploding, out
free-riding, embodying
a fully sufficient infant form.
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Copyright © 2022 by Allison Grayhurst
amazon.com/author/allisongrayhurst
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First published in “Ink Pantry” June 2022
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You can listen to the poem by clicking below: