Egg

Late, again

The conglomeration of every bridge 
and every sheet
knit together by Woman's ancient art
of inner-organ basket weaving,
a place to keep the precious,
nothing taught or written,
only given,
with no ruddy pieces
picked up along the way,
no passed-down bruises of history,
no choices or changes,
only perfect mathematics 
and the color of a woman's 
blood and secrets
shape this home circular
so no edges catch this new skin
made of feathers that will never
fly, but with hope always
flutter, fingers welded together
into one more soft-light bridge, 
and the nonsense bravery of family
that will wait with eyes 
and age to see how 
young their love can be
and until the oldest ocean's 
waters touch the highest sands
let everybody pace and panic
but keep this cradle still