crochet chickens

i tell you i am going to get us a farm.
i walk until i don't have legs to the hips
of the mountain where the crows
are born. there are ponds of black feathers.
i watch the creatures emerge one by one.
catch a huge one & ask if he is willing 
to become a chicken. he is not. 
i can't save money & i don't know if that is
a personal flaw or if the system is rigged
against us. at an outdoor market, i buy
one crocheted chicken. the vendor has
a whole flock. at home, the chicken lays eggs.
the eggs are warm as fresh little suns.
when they hatch i have seven more 
crocheted chickens. to be alive is
to always be asking, "what should i let go of?"
none of my other stuffed animals want
to come alive. i consider feeding them to the rats. 
we talk about all the animals we'd like
to have at the farm. you say, "deer"
& i say, "a stegosaurus." i don't want to own
the land, i want the land to really own me.
i want it to put a leash on me & teach me
how to stop being bipedal. feet were a mistake
we could have had hooves. we could grow
enough huckleberries to make the chickens
into crows. i beg the crocheted bird
to stop laying eggs but she cannot. a room fills
with chickens. i think to myself,
"why did we have to want?" to try to throw them
out windows & chuck them from 
the front porch. finally, the house is empty.
i got rid of all the furniture too. the window
has a place to rush. i ask you, "is this a farm?"
i can tell you want to lie to me but you don't.
"no it isn't," you say. when it rains next
the crocheted chickens in the yard get damp
& mildewy. they cease with their laying.