Digging the hen’s grave

on a day when I
can, though barely,
my own mortality
implicated, excavated,

spading through
hardpan, carving
space for the body
she still inhabits,

 tail down, but head
up. Eyes bright;
a shimmer
of hackle feathers

she will not molt.
Secretly, I invoke fox,
bobcat, hawk: You may
come now; she can

no longer run.
(The tumors advance.)
Trade your brief terror
for her slow dying.

Let your violence
be immaculate; leave
few feathers, less blood.
I have this affection.

***
I work this poem
through many days.
Restraint is called
for:  the telling

detail; the precise
intimation. My old hen
makes better use of
my long melancholy,

her pre-postmortem.
While I eulogize,
she improves, forages,
bathes languidly in

sun and dirt,
expresses an affection
for watermelon and sweet
corn, milk flying from

kernels with every
appreciative peck. I
scratch the small spot
on my ossified skull

where mystery yet abides,
where certainty recedes.
A glad confusion blossoms,
expands;  it might

be backfilled with
optimism were it not
for the shovel held
in abeyance.

***
Somewhere, some
time, some other
spade rests, my
grave dug and waiting,

as I quietly, unpredictably,
unbecome. Yet here
we are, my hen and I,
still alive in the late season

of sweet corn, of watermelon.
I scratch that soft spot,
feel the hint of a fontanel.
Shuck the ear; slice the wedge.

 

Tags: acceptance, animals, chickens, creative writing, loss, love, mortality, pets, poem, poetry