Thursday, December 7, 2023


I was the birdling

deep inside the egg

nestled down in mud.


Wind blew against

the misshapen shell—

so ugly and spotted it was beautiful.


Stirring, I set to work—

tip, tap, click, clack—

a bruised spot forming

from the egg tooth

before the gaping hole revealed me.


No song, just sweat and grit,

shell splattered with shit,

but in the midst of it—

ugly and alive and beautiful.



© 2023 Jennifer Wagner




Desperate Poets:  Desperate Voicings (Creative Method)



Fireblossom said...

And that is how that is done!

Brendan said...

Egg-zactly! Makes me think of how Merlin went mad and fled to the woods where he built an esplumoir atop a tree where he moulted into the singing bird he became. A lovely, lively and crisp articulation of where the singing comes from.

Di said...

Wow...brilliant. Love it!

Rajani said...

Beautifully said.. and accurate too. It comes from hard work and ugliness and splatter and shatter.

JIm Feeney said...

Clever and original!! JIM

Grace said...

Beautiful as always!!!!