rotten eggs

we could not keep up
with all the planets the chickens
insisted on making. you have 
to eat the sun as soon as it arrives. 
this is what the cinnamon hens told me. 
i need summer like a glass
of holy water. cartons full.
blooms haloing each shell. 
it is winter now & the chickens
are slow to prophecy. i search the wood chips
& sometimes i find a frozen egg.
in summer though i would often
find one buried & rotten.
the putrid apocalypse. i could see
through the shell. myself in a tiny room
working on a spreadsheet of terrors. 
my eyes gone sick in the soup. 
what if each failure was a site of worship?
sentences punctuated by 
divine rotten eggs. unchickened & 
reeking of the future gone sick
from waiting. if they are really bad 
the eggs will just about pop. 
tension from a life still unsaid.
i crack open doors. i ooze onto greased pans.
the chickens do not stop though.
there is always another room. another 
mother. another sun coming 
into the sky like a body into a claw-foot tub. 
outside the city is eggs. the sky is eggs. 
rotting pockets of old wanting. 
i go out when the sky is still orange.
in the coop i find a chick still damp
from her egg. she is soft & terrified.
i take her inside to warm her. 
we talk for hours about the taste 
of our respective yolks. in the end 
the rot is not talking to us. it is asking 
for soil. it is running headless toward
the spirit world with our thumbs 
still twitching in its belly.