I feel no different now
from how I did when the egg
ripened on its pedestal, erupted
from the follicle, drenched
in fluid, and floated toward tentacles
of the oviduct, to be swept inside
by cilia beating in synchrony
like grass blades in wind.
Yes, I feel the same longing
I knew when the egg was covered
with sperm, tiny writhing snakes,
and I can still imagine
the one sperm that enters,
cells cleaving to form
a hollow ball, bouncing
down the oviduct, then infolding
and implanting in the muscular
wall of my uterus, the well-
developed tail, pharyngeal gills
just like those of a fish
forming before finger buds,
heart and brain, the long
months of turning and turning
like a vase on a potter's wheel,
the finished child sliding,
wet and shining,
into her father's palms.
From The Curvature of Blue (Cervena Barva, 2009), by Lucille Lang Day. First published in Psychological Perspectives.
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