The daughter, Jill, carried her empty pail
into which she peered anxiously
for signs of guilt or something female;
in her head, some words from a story
you never know till it's in the bucket
clatter like stones on galvanised metal.
She toils uphill,
places her pail at the foot of the bed
leans over, divines a yolk
with bloodspots and a speck of baby bird
- what kind of bird she speculates;
Cuckoo, Blue-backed Roller, Canada Goose?
She'd seen a pair of geese fly overhead
as Jack came tumbling down
with homemade elastoplast
to mend his head would, but hers, hers
is a more permanent scar. Lugged out of theatre
like a pot of steamed rice, basmati, transparent.
Jill holds in her palm five wooden eggs
that will hatch nothing. She takes one
and drops it in her glove for darning;
her mother taught her how to darn and mend
but now she knows that some things