By Molly Gaudry


I had never seen snows but I had heard


imagined great pillows of them

warm as a tongue

imagine my surprise when on our journey from Mother’s home to yours you took me on a boat from which we looked for whales

the only boat I had ever touched was paper

folded by Mother’s hands

two twigs tucked in as representations of her


you were furious with our captain but I was delighted

the white

the great cut-shaped mounds were wondrous as anything I had ever seen

chunks like chocolate

I could have eaten them

I was so happy

happier still when the waves pounded all sides of the boat & below deck the crash of our bodies woke us

happiest when at last we disembarked

it was raining

it was light

it was fresh

when I remember you that is what I remember

it was raining

it was light

it was fresh

it was fall

it was wet red leaves stuck in clumps to the bottoms of my canvas sneakers

your rubber galoshes

we shared a menthol cigarette from the freezer

walked hand in hand to the corner store for butter for pancakes beneath a bright yellow umbrella the morning after our midnight arrival to your home

you took me in your arms & said WELCOME HOME & it was all of it delicious

we were open mouths on mouths

hands on inner thighs

fingers spreading toward action

fingers spreading like rhubarb in the garden

we were on the porch attached to the kitchen & I turned my head into the night & saw the rhubarb poking through the soil & I felt like the soil & your tongue felt like the rhubarb & your tongue felt like the so-slow melting or shaving of the ice on the mountain & its edges broken into song & snow that settled as a soil blanket tucked wet & warm & it was only your tongue between us then & in my throat I felt we were two lakes meeting for the first time at the open mouth of a river & you were no longer stern & unfamiliar but consuming & radiant & I felt consumed & I felt radiant

beneath our bodies

a loose plank that sounded like the click of two spoons in a creaky drawer sliding open

I felt beneath you like you were the drawer & I was the spoon

I felt beneath you like you were a spoon & I was an egg

ready to hatch

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MOLLY GAUDRY is the author of the verse novel We Take Me Apart (Mud Luscious Press) and the editor of Tell: An Anthology of Expository Narrative (Flatmancrooked).

She writes poems for pay on her blog, Flora the Whore.

Get yours here.

2 responses to “egg”

  1. Zara Potts says:

    Gorgeous words and rhythm.
    I love how it speeds up and slows down.
    Lovely. Just lovely.

  2. Marni Grossman says:

    This was just so lovely. So evocative.

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