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
guest editor: Sara Biggs Chaney
Afterword