Baby wakes up early. Outside still
looks like a negative, a reversal,
dun colored, world of dull dark.
The trees in the park should be green
soon, black iris up next
to the crumbling front steps.
The house is quiet but she
can hear the whisper-small
sounds of growth through
the cracks in the windows,
the gaps around the doors.
The air outside is cool,
the kitchen, chilled. Baby finds
the fridge filled with eggs
of all sizes, in every hue. White,
brown, blue. She plucks one
from Styrofoam, and brings
it to the sink. Thinks
about how this season’s meant
to ring loud as church bells,
fill the world with light.
Mother might say the word,
saved, but Baby would bristle,
then blush. She shakes the egg
in her warm hand then holds
it still. Grabs her scalpel
and pierces the shallow end.
Worries the tip back and forth until
a crack forms and the shell
gives way. Careful, careful.
Just a bit of yolk, Baby. Be gentle,
Be sure. Now put your lips against
the fat end, and blow
like you’re praying, blow
while the morning shivers,
while the whole world rises
and glows.
