Day XI

she shuddered at the thought of the chicken coop
the long climb half way up the hill
only to have to crawl over the door jam
why is a door jam a foot off the ground anyway

gamely she gathered the coffee can into the crook of her arm
rusted, dented, bits of straw sticking to its insides
from other eggs gathered on other days
why do grandkids always have to do the yucky jobs

squaring her shoulders she ignored the grandmother
who called to her to be careful with the eggs
careful with the hens, but never a word about the girl
did the grandmother only care about the eggs and the horrid chickens

up and over the door jam, the coop was suffocatingly humid, hot,
dank, fetid, dust motes stalked one another
never gaining, but floating, swirling, pas de deux,
did the dancer-stalkers ever tire and long for rest

hope was dashed as the girl found hens on their nests
dismayed, trepidatious, anxious, nervous,
she must reach under the hens, braving their nasty beaks,
was she more afraid of the grandmother than the beady-eyed hens

start with the empty nests, she told herself, easiest first,
self-talking confidence as she placed the eggs, but carefully, of course,
into the coffee can, watching the level rise, until at last
she must carefully slide her hand under the hens on their nests

relief, she approached the the last nest with only a smattering
of red swollen blotches dotting her right forearm,
egg after egg until there was no more room in the coffee can
should she just push the eggs down to make more room

pushing always worked when hiding dirty clothes under her bed,
toys into her toy trunk, crayons into the crayon box
pushing peas around her plate until dinner was over
yes, a little push was just the answer now