Egg time

Sarah Mnatzaganian

Give me an egg as round as childhood.
I’ll tap its innocent shell, push sideways
through its Humpty Dumpty head to find
a core of molten gold or the dry pollen
of a hardened heart. May this teaspoon
bring my tongue the taste of lunch hour
on a school day when I’m six, hugging
the bump under mum’s dungarees,
How did the morning go? Watching her
butter homemade bread. Reading aloud
while the baby kicks. Back down the lane
for the lonely end of playtime, her love
like albumen around my ears and in my eyes.
Voices water-slow. Whistle blown
from the other side of the world.