Like a chicken

weeds

You were a late man in your small
thirties when I found you in
the incubator.

You had been abandoned in your
youth for too many
early necessary months.

For years you chose a deaf
judiciousness and a way
of frowning safely at your feet.

Now I instruct you, enunciating
blunt clear clauses: ‘You must
trust me. I promise not to vanish.’

Some day you will warily
raise your eyes, you will feel
your ears unclench, and you

will run into my feathers
like a chicken.

*

Rachel McAlpine

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