Jenny Hubbard

For the egg I find in the yard

Hello, poor little bird-thing.
Let me scoot you onto a leaf.
When I show you
to my husband, who’s pruning,
It’s a marble he says.
Eggs are ovoid.
But I say it’s like air.
(You’re like air.)
He hacks at a hedge.

When I show you to Becky,
she tells me I’m big
on nests, every room
in the house, pillows, throws,
chairs that don’t fit
normal people. She rolls
you around in her palm.
It’s so cute she says.
(You have freckles.)
I ask But it is an egg?

Becky’s brought cupcakes,
her own fixations,
and I hate that dumb song
my husband insists on whistling
(“Rockin’ Robin”)
while the sky locks us
under its April dominion.

Listen, you: I believe
in science, in the frailty
of it. Inside your blue

shell, a baby’s closed
eyes. Inside my blue
shell, lullabies sung
to an empty bassinet.