Egg Ick

I used to wish I was infertile.

Is it symbolism that I can’t crack eggs without spilling the yolk?

Children bewilder me - ‘children’ itself sounds like a word so foreign,

I, alien, It, human.

The ‘Egg Ick’ they call it,

I call it a crippling inability to mother, to nurture, to love

those that do not already love you.

30,000 eggs

1 million eggs

1 billion eggs

A zillion babies in a fleshy, bloody, slit home

Clawing to get

Out.

Away from this monster they call mother

Wishing her own womb to poison her children

To save her from the agonising process

Of animating a life she is not woman enough to water.

Plants and eggs

A perfectly feminine scent.

I smell of the outlet mall behind my house.

Perhaps my wish will come true and I shall look around at the faces

Of pity

Or scorn (the mommy-freaks)

‘She can’t perform her natural function - might we reassemble her?’

A tear might shed at the loss of possibility

Or of relief that my body will always save me.