After the Second Miscarriage, My Daughter Teaches Me about Eggs

 

After the Second Miscarriage, My Daughter Teaches Me about Eggs

by Maggie Smith

Ladybug, lemon yellow,
the size of the period
at the end of this sentence.

Moth, lime jellybeans.

Butterfly, pearls inlaid
on a leaf’s veiny back.

Spider, silk purses
slung under the basement stairs.

Flying fish, drops of blood.

Wood frog, blue eyes,
pupils dilated in the dark.

Turtle, white leather.

Black pine snake, marbled
white stones, the kind
you pocket and rub.

Ostrich, thick as a nickel.

Emu, fifty-carat emeralds
buffed smooth, facetless.

Duck, palest green,
as if white had tinted itself
with the faint memory of a lake.