Hail Mary

It has been hard for all of us.

The hens refuse to sleep in their coop,

roosting instead atop the fence,

in low branches of the tree

beside the fence. Each night

I scoop them up, squawking

and flapping, and put them to bed,

whispering into their floppy combs

“don’t worry, girl” and “you’re so pretty.”

I’ve clipped their wings

almost to the quick. I’ve read

the news: of war, of discovery

of particles ever more minute,

of the inconceivable coming true.

I’ve wanted to be loved

with the gentle regard

the consciousless deserve:

so full of grace, snuck up on,

warm under the wings.