Embryonic

by Mary Harwell Sayler

How many shapes and turns must a poem take

inside my head to come out--kicking and squawking--

powdered with dried egg white and not entirely

bloodless--with all its little feet intact,

with all its pentameter toes and fingers

clasped in couplets as its tiny body begins

to see through new iambic or trochaic eyes?

Will this poetic world or joy of dimples,

soft-spotted temples, imagery, and simple cries

be well-received into ink-washed blankets, pink

or blue? What shall we name it? How shall we

announce its length of lines or weight or birth

of theme? What rights shall we offer for a print-

borne poem that seems so beautiful and well-conceived?