Behind the kitchen table, April
evening struggles through stippled
glass—corn flung from cobs chewed
into microphones. The children,
prone to holding after-dinner
spelling bees, wield vegetables
and serve bombastic speeches
with the pudding. Standing on
chairs, parliament beseeches the
hens for offspring until canned
plums become pits and copacetic
chickens mosey to bed. The girl
disposes her wishes in the compost
tin. But the boy, wisely holding
purple seeds for planting, prays at
the window longer. Dish suds
chuckle along bracelet charms
as mother, listening at the sink,
turns to watch. Yesterday the sun
absquatulated with all his demands
for chicks and today too, only
blue begets red begets rose as
hands and horizon are washed
to wrinkled pink. Soon though
the boy, pretend asleep in his
room, hears the Jeopardy song
come on and knows it’s safe
to tip-toe in striped green socks to
the cellar. He shifts the shallot basket
and a can of wood stain. The homemade
garden markers part and trowels see
dank shadows fall from paint sheets
‘til there, unroofed, are eggs. Socks
slung between bike spokes make
beds: a wool bunk for each chick
waiting to be hatched. Push pins
along the peach shelf secure
faces drawn in pencil. Gold
framed daguerreotype. Grey
combs and feathers fill portraits
or still lifes. They are named: Mary,
Elise, Charles, Ron. Goodnight
family. He holds the newest
foundling, Emma, for a moment
longer before pulling the covering
over her cool white shell and
trusting a pail of wise-eyed
potatoes to keep watch until dawn.