Creighton again
South Delhi Jungle Park at Four
by Michael Creighton
The beetle walks on its front legs,
back legs pushing a ball of dung across our path.
You complain the ants will bite you
if we don’t keep moving.
Even the neon-necked peacock fails
to hold your attention;
there is grit between your toes,
a bothersome slipperiness in your
puddle-soaked sandals.
Only the tiny purple and brown
speckled egg on the path before us
stops your complaints. It’s beautiful.
Let’s take it home and hatch it.
I place the egg in my breast pocket,
knowing there are things
I’ll never be able to explain to this little girl—
the hopelessness of a fallen egg,
the bright yellow stain that will appear
some hours later on my white shirt,
just above the place
I imagine my heart to be.
—
More about Michael Creighton at Kaleidowhirl.
