the boy that I married became a poultry farmer
and I help him wash
little brown pullet eggs
late at night in our kitchen sink
(my friend said: this is a good sink!
because it is steel
and it is deep)
we clean eggs together and I am faster and I am better at it because he is too
(that’s good for butchering not buffing the shit from 300 eggshells)
sometimes there is dead blood on a hen’s first egg:
maroon, like the crust on my first infant’s
temples, the same color caught in her thick black birth hair for several days
(even water seemed too soon for her)
I like to prepare lists of things that I want.
I present these lists to my husband (I love to want things)
and I earnestly want him to attend to these lists
I always believe that he can
I do not want for anything.
except I really would prefer a gold hoop
to the silver one that I wear in my nostril now
and well, I’d like a good brush and fine collars for my cats
and I would prefer to eat organ meats
and I would prefer it if every love I had ever known had been poured pure
and knotless as milk.
I am slow now the slowest that I have ever been.
I am still very young however and that is good.
I am as young as my mother
who teaches my two daughters to head-bang, to cartwheel, to check pearls
with their teeth. I am as young as my father
who still rides his thoroughbred ponies and fights with his pilots
(its all very adventuresome, dear heart)
and I am young as my grandmother wearing her big silver on her cruises and
I am as young as my great-grandmother, sparkling still in her perfume bottle sarcophagus.
I am as ancient as anything
too ancient for hearing good advice
too ancient for small talk
and too ancient for any fucking nonsense of any kind.
I will do that same dance again soon.