Eggs

Egg
shells
will crack.
They don't hatch
in boiling water,
the clutch nested in a saucepan,
bubbling, dancing, merrily heralding our breakfast.
Boiled eggs were a Sunday treat at boarding school – during the week it was cornflakes and milk.
On grown-up Sunday mornings, they are still luxuries.
Brown, speckled, some feathers attached,
they warm in our hands,
whispering:
careful,
we
break.