Rooster
2020
A black rooster
and two black hens
behind a red outbuilding,
inside a grey pen.
I know if I watch them
I won’t look your way.
So I watch them,
each and every second of
each and every day.
That fat yellow yolk of a sun
hangs right behind your head -
do you think this is a joke?
That I cover my eyes for fun?
I spit down the well -
tall tale: a peephole to hell,
where every sound becomes silence
if you listen long enough.
And by god, I listen! with
ears perked and gone pink, peony-.
When your muddy boots come off
and I catch a glimpse of long toes,
a bony ankle, a perfect arch,
as you hoist the bucket from those depths.
You sit beside me to wash your feet -
did you know I would kneel?
I would kneel,
with my skirts pulled up around the waist,
I would kneel.
Even if it took me forever,
I would scrub you clean,
all lily white and swaddled
like a child, I would hold you.
When you have sowed and reaped,
and sowed and reaped again,
you leave your scythe propped
against a withered, lightning-struck tree.
It glints in your dying sunlight,
one singular canine in an otherwise toothless maw,
and I pick at the hay
left by last Summer’s hottest day.
It lines the cage to keep the pests away
from your four black chickens
and your two black hens.