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Eggshell Children
by Michael Magee

They sit in their wagons of egg shells
newly hatched with sun hats, listening
to the fountains, stacked in their cartons
eyes blinking back at the white statue of
the lady on the island waving to them
as though they were meeting thier
very own moai for the first time‐

Their ancestors the trees, their mother
the water, the wind is blowing through
them resting for a moment in their caravans
before their teachers pull them around
the pond. Not yet hard-boiled, still poached
waiting to come out of their egg cups
wondering what color their feathers will be.

 


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