She smiles at me,

there’s not much we can do


it was an accident.


They lie scattered in pieces across the grass,

yolk seeping from them

into the hungry ground


Robin’s eggs are fragile,

they break easily,

she says.


I look up at the tree above,

the mother sits, looking at me,

her breasts rising and falling.


She had watched me hold her children

in my small, pudgy hands

and she had watched me squeeze too hard,

the yolk dribbling from my fingers.


I look at my mother,

come on,

let’s go home.


This poem is about: 
Our world


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