The grass in the yard rises mid-calf,
sways and hisses in the breeze.
We go to gather eggs.

I fear the rooster, his cackle,
the storm of feathers. Grandmother
brooms him into the sunny yard.

Her boney hands ruffle the chickens
as she gathers the tea-brown ovals.
But one egg struggles back

still attached to the nest
by some uncoiling black umbilical.
When she puts the snake together in her head,

how they both wanted the same half-swallowed egg,
her blood turns to ash and she blows away.
Paints the straw-strewn floor bright yellow,

flies through the door with a bang.
My fingers let go of the chicken wire
and I step over the fallen basket,

watch how the snake unhinges its jaw,
how the egg disappears, the snake disappears,
how the hens swallow their own harshness,
the rustle of feathers like the soft sound
of wind in the grass.

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No books or chapbooks yet. I keep meaning to get a manuscript together, but I haven't got much beyond some decent titles. I've been nominated for two Pushcart prizes and, in the last two years, I've had over a hundred poems taken by journals including Rattle, Folio, Prairie Schooner, 5 AM and Diner. I love the work of Charles Simic, Louise Gluck and Russell Edson.
 

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autumn 2006 | kaleidowhirl