eggs

i didn't tell you when the chickens stopped
laying eggs. first i found lemons
& then apples & bullet shells & even
a copy of a diary i wrote in during middle school.
the chickens were getting more & more
connected to a rift in time that runs
right through the middle of the yard.
they started to call my old name. the one 
with peach fuzz all over it. it was not them being
transphobic, it was them trying to call back
to a little knot in the depths of my sea weed.
i grew feathers. plucked them out. they came in
cinnamon just like some of the hens. 
i collected each harvest in a little basket.
still not eggs. you offered one day to go out
& check the coop for me. i stood up, panicked.
i said, "they are mine." you were offended 
& i didn't try to fix anything. instead i ran 
out to the coop. i locked myself inside
& hunkered down with the hens. they showed me
their shiny newest creations. a television &
a pocket knife. i asked them, "what made 
you stop?" they did not know. i told them,
"sometimes i don't know how to create anymore."
they laughed at me. a year or so earlier, a fox
had gotten into the coop. none of them were eaten.
i wonder what they told each other in the dark
while they waited for him to leave. he swallowed
all their eggs whole. one by one. i do not know
how it is that i still have more to lose.
i woke you up in the middle of the night. i took you
to the coop. it was full to the ceiling with eggs. the chickens
slept on top. you were confused but not angry.
you asked me, "why?" & i did not have an answer. 
i wish that the world didn't always come at me
in oceans. i take a shovel & dig at the earth.
i find eggs there too. there is still so much i do not
tell anyone. i still think the fruit was real. 
i ate that first lemon in the moon & it tasted
like lightning on a blue night.