THE EGG
Lists of concerns that concern me, litter my head on waking,
Shuffling their order of importance and urgency. Some things remain undone
And it becomes their natural state over time, as they fossilize.
Notes of ideas for books from 2010 are heaped in my study as evidence
Of my ideas back then. Paintings remain unhung,
Being constantly pushed aside by the here and now actions
I make daily. And then there’s the egg in the incubator:
It may have an owl in it. For six years its mother kept her secret
So well that I called her Oscar. Her certificate did not sex her.
Out of three, she broke two: I feel fated to hatch one
If it doesn’t die in the shell as a swirling mess of Eurasian owl abstractions
And the beginnings of soft bone, or collapse after hatching
Like a deflating toy, unable to retain air, tired of life before living it.
And then all the urgencies, demands, and other obligations,
The arrangements, invitations and social gatherings,
Will cease to matter as I devote my waking hours
To the upkeep of this one perfect being, whose needs
Will outstrip everything as it doubles in size every three days,
Becoming beak and claws, with eyes as big as gobstoppers
And the cry of an owl child.
