Egg Poem by Felix Bongjoh

(i)

An oval half-moon
still ebbing off
the cream and cotton
shore of its bumpy

tightened body
smooth as the palm
grabbing it,
rubbing its temple
and forehead,

as it is lifted off
its thick frog back
fleshy
carton holder,

an alligator skin
grabbing
and holding it
deep down
its hollow stool.

a cave of a seat
brushing
its tucked-in buttocks.

Egg, a dwarf brittle
moon in my hand,

the folded-in moth
swollen into
a moonstone,

the tapered
gemstone
hanging down from

mama's macramé
necklace
harder than bone.

(ii)

How hard has
an egg grown,
but soft
as the cream
and beige
eggplant hanging

down, an overgrown
grape, sticking out

from a light lime
cloud of grapes
too soft
to be a hen's eggs.

(iii)

But a hen's egg
carries
the floating
sun of a yolk,

the sun's corona
and drifting edges
white and silver

jelly melting off
like a yellow candle's
wax drifting

into sky's noon
gold lake wallowing
round the yolk
of a dwarf sun.

Time for late
breakfast, an egg
carrying no gold,

but the swelling
unfeathered
face of a quivering

bouncing chicken,
an exploded birth
on the table.