Ova
The distant cold hum
of a refrigerated embryology.
Morning eggs arrayed
in their cartons,
domed power-plants
in laboratory-white.
I crack a shell open,
by cautious habit
check for any telltale spindrift of red,
a sign of incipient life
or the Sunnyside-up face of death.
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2025
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