— Tom Rimel
An elegant sphere so delicate
one clean strike has split the shell.
When spilling out
a clear white shimmer coats the glass
but the sunburst of florescent ink-
the sack that may hold life-
falls opaque and stubbornly round.
Keep temperate and the raw will spoil
but what more cleansing flame
than juice from a willing mouth?
So swallow whole and brave let slide,
each muscled ring in rhythm
draws the unborn deeper down.
sound out specks of pulse,
the thrill of sex and toes,
the black awe from a spot of eye…
but welcome too the doubts of a creator,
ache stillborn and alone.
Hold vigil, wait first breath but know-
the pecking now breaks inside out.