In my next life, I will begin as an egg underground. With the smell of spring
it will be my apple-stem legs that part the dirt;
my red eyes that dilate in the sun. I’ll leave my shell at the nearest tree
and stare at my body. Remember the distaste of being human.
Think about the gift of having wings. When my time has come--
once I’ve fucked and I’ve fucked and I’ve fucked, with no more songs to sing,
I’ll leave behind eggs filled with my daughters. I’ll miss their first
birthday, but I can picture them now, crawling out like a newborn baby--
wings outstretched and screaming.
Madison Sides (she/her) is a poet from Lincoln, Nebraska. She studies English and French and loves all things regarding the nostalgia of childhood, Phoebe Bridgers, and beekeeping. Find her on Twitter at @madisonsides28.