There were eggs all year in my childhood.
Passover red, Easter blue ornaments,
yolk blown through a pinhole,
omelets sunrise yellow, ochre point.
Now you, so tiny
you fit under my thumb.
You will be a melon
fecund and hard,
painful, precocious,
with your round red mouth.
Crouched, you prepare
for the gape of breath.
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