I cut Saturday morning with a fork, spilling yolk
the soft-boiled egg asks me, is it time to have a baby?
You bring me toast on a separate plate
cut into small triangles, perfect for soaking
in the yellow—maybe we should paint the other bedroom
yellow? I chew on neutral colours, savour
the taste. Blowing dog hair away from your food, you cradle
another egg for yourself. You trip on our wagging dog,
shattered stoneware scatters miniature lives.
Shooing the dog away from danger is your excuse
not to answer. Will motherhood be so easy?
My mother’s shell couldn’t be cracked.
Will I be as hard as she was?