A scrawny-eight-year-old
mother lifted up through the heat of July.
Sat her atop Kathy's egg-crate-cart.

Kathy was 14 and still couldn’t reach
the top row of eggs. She would climb-top
the egg-crate-cart
O' so carefully plucking
eggs from snapping hens—
dangling over chicken shit
pits at 2pm.

From now on, the scrawny eight-year-old
rode the cart along the top row—
clutching eggs to her chest till
she could hold no more.

She dropped 'em in a crate.

Scrawny looked up.

Dead hen, midday July lay
roasting in the back of a cage.
"So! Pull it out," snapped Kathy.
Scrawny Eight tugged, "I can't."
Its beak was stuck 'round wire.
"Pull harder!" So Scrawny did,
and off popped the legs
of the hen. Exploding chicken
filled with methane gas burst
and splat intestines—feces.

When chickens die they do not excrete.

The cart shook and swayed tipping to break
every egg in the crate.
The whole house screamed in riotous agony.
Especially me at scrawny eight.

Bathtub Gin, Issue 11 (Fall/Winter 2002)