M a r y   B u c h i n g e r

 

 

 

 

 

 

The old red coop

 

                        was white inside

when I was young, the narrow

wood-framed wire door swinging

shut behind me in a slam, rippled

through the round, nervy huddles.

The straw, hollow and rancid,

grew sharp in summer heat,

and I’d dare myself to breathe

with the hens, the hurried huff

of panted breath. One bloodied

pullet would bear it all. Feathers

rooted between my fingers,

none of us could fly.

copyright 2014 by Mary Buchinger

home

about rhp

contact us

 

 

Words to Cure the Tameness

guest editor: Sara Biggs Chaney

The Note

Lauren Gordon

Mary Buchinger

Sarah J. Sloat

Afterword

right hand pointing

main page

submit