Claudia Serea

Where was I? you ask

You were a little seed
I carried embedded in my body,

so small,
like the kiwi seeds

in the fruit’s bright green
translucent flesh.

At sunset, when I moved just so
against the low light,

the rays would shine through my belly
and I could almost see you there,

the pink hazy spider
hanging inside

by thin threads of tissue,
barely visible,

as the chick’s seed could be seen
caught in a tangled cloud

when Grandma raised the egg
against the dim light of the gas lamp,

shaded the shell
with her cupped hand,

rotated it,
and squinted.

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