ghost chickens lay eggs in the yard
i always step on them.
barefoot. yolk between toes.
the yellow of a bright old summer.
once we had a swing set but it
died like a velociraptor. crumpled bone.
we shook the structure with our
little baby-skin bodies. tethered
to sky. i bruise
like tea leaves. i want to be loved
loud white egg. gently carried
from carton to chin. the chickens
no longer consider lineage. now they lay
for comfort. throwing eggs
at the neighbor's heart. i eat
with my fingers. life dipped in bronze.
baby show boats down the river styx.
i should not be trusted with
love affairs. i should be given
a time sheet to check into each sunset.
no one is keeping tabs on my
wreckless habits so i have been trying
to hire a priest. exorcism is in vogue.
the chickens should probably be
holy-watered away but what is life
without a few demons? every bird
has a smidgen of evil. i don't believe
in binaries except for ripe / unripe.
none of the eggs are ripe. none would be
chicken if cradled to term.
i once swallowed one whole hoping
to be a chicken mother but instead
felt the egg dissolve between my ribs.
a single feather still lurks there.
the chickens sleep nearly all the time.
we could put up a fence & call them ours
but i prefer them to be free range ghosts.
another egg another. egg in the lawn mower.
egg for a porch light. i hold one
in my palm. still warm. yolk weeping.
i say, "hush, you're only a ghost."