Scrambled Eggs

by Jenny Moran

Gold-haired little girl, jewel filled

and in polka dot pink,


your gaping stare pleads with me –

the mouth of a starving calf.


I should hold, rock and sway you

and yet my arms are limp.


Tiny moons roll from your lids.

I orbit you, tissueless,


‘til your wince has imploded,

your egg –yolk eyes glazing,


your inner jewels jutting

daggers through your cradle.


Tissueless, when metal claws

lacerate your flesh.


I have smeared them in your blood.

Never call me Mother.