Blood clots in egg

by Olivia Sandhu

a blur of walls and days
then a jug, from the cupboard with its smears,
splinter of shell with the sunny glob of orange
and a search for debris amongst the jelly.

forced to inspect, I find
fragments of the freckled brittle, and then
(mortified)
gliding over the sphere of yolk – the guilty pink
of three tiny masses
misshapen clumps of life, the largest
curled in on itself, embryonic
a speck of pulpy flesh, a speck
with that perfect, ugly shape, the hunched back –

I fish out the evidence with a spoon.
the rawness offends me.