Margaux is pregnant and her egg is in a shoebox on the top shelf.
I take it down, cradling the small pouch to warm it–
the time is coming.
Small and cold, I peek for signs of life,
the rise of breath, but the skeletal pterosaur,
arms spread eagle, seems too still.
Untying the thin thread anchoring the body to the
thin shell, unthreading the knot carefully,
I cut the little creature free and cradle her in my hands.
A movement, a breath.
Pressing the flat dry mouth against Margaux’s breast
which suddenly doubles, then triples in size
like a dried mushroom emerged in water until,
fattened and plump, a small mouse,
the healthy baby suckles.
Strange, I think, eyeing her puffed-up fur, soft
but, wasn’t Margaux a real baby?
I get out of the car.
A man get’s in, and by my side
watches as I maneuver badly, running off the road.
I am going to be g caught.
I have no license, the car isn’t mine, I just took it.
I can’t believe I am in this mess, and everyone will know,
there is no escape —,
if only I had
left the car where it was.
Back and forth searching for my purse,
while the detective and his squad monitor me.
Police, like peasants, weaving through this space and plot–
first a pottery studio, then a bakery,
next a factory–, nothing modern.
Perhaps if I explain that I needed the car
because my daughter had a baby and I had to help her.
Oh, I will be a doting grandmother, then.
The men don’t threaten but I am not free.
My mother appears briefly, as she is, a bit confused,
making a point.
Back at my place, a large expanse.
Shared with 2 men who might be lovers.
Navigating the noise, the light, the care-taking,
the baby and Margaux.
I don’t remember much.
So much movement and commotion
But the little still body emerging from the egg.
That sequence is clear, potent.