Last of the Old Hens

Last of the Old Hens

Blue hobbles, favoring her left foot.
incontinent, she dribbles her infertile, pale
S e
e d
s

scattering them like the grains and flowers
that she eats; she is no longer nimble
enough to bear into the nest box.


Cadillac remains among her sisters
here to strut toward the human hand
she must find adequate---it can be
counted on to meet her simple demands.
Her life is good, she knows so she crows
into my chest the most fetching gurgle.
I embrace this pulse, this warmth.
Her scaly talon wraps round mine.
Her nails describe her work:
An armless search, scratching, moving into
the shade of a Birch when the sky so decrees.
She is all skirt and feminine gifts. I love her
for her friendly ways. Her sisters were not
so forward. Even among fowl such a one
displays fine and few.


Crooked Sister shies and skitters
without her crooked crew. Poor old bird.
Once a member of a trio of maimed chicks,
she and her flock now and then found themselves
in the mouth of a Labrador, then released
only to be pursued and caught by their tails,
made twisted and broken. Still she lays!