The egg may walk or crawl or swim or simply sit, Amoebic shell. It is too soon to tell, What yonder lies beneath the swell. A brownish, Reddish, zygote beige. Too young to show the signs Of age, my eggy man is incognito. Like little man of apple seed, no colour yet or type or creed, Just edges of potential, minus the credentials. What form or frame or shape his yoke will take does not compute, For now he bakes. Cocooned in territories uncharted, His little life has not yet started. Embryonic Oompa Loompa, Floating in your membrane sea. I cannot see or feel or hear your Little cries or shouts of glee. Or sorrow. Perhaps Tomorrow I will know, what lies beneath your mystic glow. If you walk, will you walk tall and saunter down your sunny street, And nod goodday to other eggs who cross your path for you to greet. And if you crawl, will you be quick or slow or, Somewhere in between. Perhaps more hunched than svelte, I hope On others you need not lean. And if you Swim in waters clear, will they turn murky green, or steer Away from others’ tainted touch. Your strength is yours to hold, In hand or palm or chaos, calm. And if your calling simply is to sit amoebic in your shell, Hold high your head when others pass and laugh At your expense and swell your little yellow chest. You’re no more feeble than the rest. While they may climb The highest mountains, save the earth and cure the ill, You are my little fountain, small, exquisite. Yes you will.
© Rebecca Cukier 2009
© Harvard University Press 2009