Golden Egg
Name of the donation agency, which made me
the goose: twenty-two and waiting
tables at Bacchus on Meadow in grad school.
I had to inject myself with hormones each day
I had to inject myself with hormones each day
for a month, to prod my ovaries. Three grand a batch,
I’d told my boyfriend, dropping the egg
I’d told my boyfriend, dropping the egg
donation forms in his lap. I’d ignored
his protests—You’ve done way too much acid;
his protests—You’ve done way too much acid;
your eggs are mutants—and filled out
the questionnaire. The only part of the agency’s
the questionnaire. The only part of the agency’s
paperwork that made me shiver was when I had
to pick The Photo for my donor profile:
to pick The Photo for my donor profile:
the picture that showed me at my most blue-eyed
and strawberry blond, my zenith of pink-
and strawberry blond, my zenith of pink-
cheeked and monetizing cuteness.
I knew which one. I had my mom mail it,
I knew which one. I had my mom mail it,
no explanation: me, three years old,
in overalls of lilac corduroy. I’m holding to my ear
in overalls of lilac corduroy. I’m holding to my ear
a toy rotary phone’s red-plastic receiver
as I pretend to talk to my granny. One
as I pretend to talk to my granny. One
chubby finger loops and loops through
the spiral cord. My huge grin: both rows
the spiral cord. My huge grin: both rows
of baby teeth exposed. After donating eggs
one time, which paid—for six months—my rent,
one time, which paid—for six months—my rent,
I tried not to think about it: The Photo,
which, over years, has grown into Them. Children
which, over years, has grown into Them. Children
I never wanted, I want you now
to know one thing: You can find me
to know one thing: You can find me
in the rhymes of every rockabyed night
your real parents spent by your side,
your real parents spent by your side,
soothing you. I’m not real to you,
not a whole body: a partial body, a scraping,
not a whole body: a partial body, a scraping,
and what does that make me? Don’t try
to find me by spit, by genetic
to find me by spit, by genetic
sleuthing, by Are you my? I hope you
have all of your fingers, your toes, that you
have all of your fingers, your toes, that you
love the old stories, those about the dark
forests and the children who survived,
forests and the children who survived,
like Moses. I’m the golden goose who
dropped you into someone else’s basket and flew.
dropped you into someone else’s basket and flew.
