The Scorpion and the Egg
I’d asked for this not to be recorded;
this failure on my part, to be a good
parent; this failure over the egg, my
handing him a scorpion instead, my
thoughtlessness.
How can I explain
that my mind was elsewhere? That I was
tired from the work under a burning
sun, that my eyes ached, the sweat of
the day crusted around them?
He asked for an egg, and I was glad
to reach into the basket and deliver up
a fresh white egg into his trusting
hands which curled towards me, the
fingers like tiny sea creatures
opening just so, his two palms
facing each other to form a tiny boat.
The tender trembling grubbiness
of his raw little hands, the shallow dirtied
life line, the nails chipped from his play.
How I could have failed
to feel that what I’d scooped up
with my work hard hand was not egg
but scorpion will forever elude me.
I felt his shriek of pain, like a knife, saw
the cruel arced black jointed body,
and then, the tiny drop of blood
in the fat pad below his thumb;
saw the women rush at me, lift
my son away from my side.
All night they wailed, I stopped my ears
but their sorrow haunts me still.
Sally St Clair‘s stories and poems have appeared in numerous magazines and journals, recently in Stone of Madness Press, Poetry Scotland, Raceme, ARC, Salzburg Poetry Review and London Grip. She is currently working on a pamphlet, as well as a novel.