Thursday, June 2, 2011

Fat Hen ~ Andrew Spacey



Brackenbury’s chenopodium
a goosefoot revival in a field

with uncanny curvature
versus long gone man, Kettle,

on all fours pulls up the root.
It is a pain like a tongue bitten.

His wife hangs loose white hens
from beams in a washed outhouse.

Only the poor remember The Lows
where slides the smiling pike.

Red is in the cooling sky and I
have clear views before roost.

Lapwings, graceful in well
oiled madness articulate that gap

between then and now. In this enclosure
birds altering the breath, a weed

dormant in time common as muck
disturbed, anticipating the man. 

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