Kinder Egg


•   November 04 2013 // poetry   •

A poem by Francine Elena

 

Kinder Egg

Is it a surprise that
under the orange
and white,
under the brown-cream,

lies a choking hazard
yolk that breaks
into a smurf
or a mini surfboard?

Or a tiny monster
with a detachable tail
in a curl
of instructional paper?

It is a kind of surprise.
The variables merely
in the mould and hue
of the material.

As if Fate only
had a classroom
modelling set
of molecules.

It will not
produce
frogspawn
or caviar.

It will not
contain plane tickets
to Rio de Janeiro,
or keys to a Jaguar.

It will not contain a cache
of hallucinogens
or vitamins
or neurological medicine.

It will not
predict
the gender
of your unborn child.

It will not break
like the head of Zeus
and produce a
gleaming Athena.

It will not crack
with crawling ants
and move into the shape
of kneeling Narcissus.

It will not
enlighten you on
string theory or
transcendentalism.

It will not contain
moon rock or Berlin Wall
or a chunk
of the Gaza Strip.

The egg will not break
into an aria.
Nor will it unleash
the ills of the world.

The egg will not become a falafel,
or the eye of a kestrel or
a pharaoh’s beetle
or a pebble from the Dead Sea.

Much higher the statistical
probability
is the mundane,
unkind surprise.

Just once, a child
might break open an egg
hoping for plastic toy
and find an empty shell.

 

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Francine Elena’s poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in The Best British Poetry 2013 (Salt), 3AM Magazine, Par Avion (3AM Press), Christmas Lantern (3AM Press) and The London Literary Project. She writes for Art Wednesday magazine and works for a London publishing house.