Sabled shell, scalloped,

veined and apexed, a maple leaf

still stickied, sapped with yolk,

when I found the clutch, deep,

the company sand pit,

your sister,

her egg had split, spilt

liquid thick, slow as semen

to dry on the sandhill where

velvet-red cowkillers

patrol a shadowless, midday sun.

Beside the callous trucks

That once, I took you in,

If not me, who would have?
 
Ed McCourt is an Assoc. Prof. of English at Jacksonville University and his work has appeared in the Portland Review, the Little Patuxent Review, the Citron Review, and elsewhere.