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.