Thirteen ways to count your chickens
Five hens scurry around the yard,
scratching and preening,
dust baths and dust ups
I gather the eggs
Starkly white, mottled brown,
or freckled like a young child’s nose.
The hen watches me steal her labour
I herd my children under my arm,
A mother hen,
even to these two adult men
When the rooster died,
one of the hens began to crow.
Will I crow if my husband dies?
My first roast hen was a disaster;
too many spices, not enough glistening crispy skin.
You can take the Indian out of the girl,
but the tandoori chicken remains
My insecurities have come home
to roost like proverbial hens.
They sit puffed and accusatorial on the fence
The only good thing about the cold
is huddling under the quilt.
I roll myself in the downy feathers,
imagine myself a hen
fussing in her nest
Hens can fly, you know.
skirts hiked up, wings flapping.
They’re much less graceful than a bumble bee
Male birds denote human genitalia,
but hens are not vaginas
My sister taught me to whistle
when I was ten.
You know what they say,
About whistling women and crowing hens
Once, my mother and I
watched my aunt,
mad as a wet hen,
chase my uncle,
a sickle held high in her hand
I bought chocolates for the children
but left them in the downstairs pantry.
This is like leaving a fox in charge of the hen house.
I’m not a hen
“What’s a Hindu?” he asked,
but I heard “hen do”.
“Lay eggs,” I said.
We were both confused.