Hush Hush

When I was really small, we used to walk along a disused track,
still called the railway line. It wasn’t one of Beeching’s cuts,
but an old quarry service route, stone blasted, raining fossils,
in a red Marlestone fog. Nature had taken it back, of course.

I can remember, running far from my Mother’s grasping cries,
under charged boundaries, trying them with fingers and tongue –
waiting for the jolt, wanting to feel the danger, reminding me
to always remain anchored to the earth – a sapling still tentative.

One day, racing to the horizon, I found the old signal box.
door long gone, paint peeling, just the hint of memory.
A small banked hearth and singing kettle, a neat brushed uniform.
I didn’t see it a first, yet somehow I knew to bow my head.

There in the corner, a wheel of twigs and fur, garnished
With a twist of orange twine. We locked eyes and I knew
it was her space, retreating, never breaking contact, as if
caught in the spell of shell and yolk. She lifted over my head,

to show me a clutch of pale blue hopes. I walked back to my
Mother, not knowing whether to share surprise or keep silent.
Instead I called for sticklebacks resting a small blue bucket,
to slide slipstream again later. I always kept her secret safe.

-Ali Jones

This Egg Asks

his dad to take the egg cup
from him in the dark garden.
Joins his Good Egg disciples.

Later his disciple Bad Egg
Judas licks him
and he is arrested.

Soldiers break him,
His yolk bleeds.
Nailed to a cross

the egg gets wet
in a storm.
Taken down, wrapped,

he is placed in a box,
discovered to be empty,
the wrapper discarded.

Disciples go on an egg hunt.
Later learn he has risen
to the mouth of his dad.

-Paul Brookes

First day @ Job

Today the chick’s
shell has cracked.

It rubs its eyes
while it struggles
to get up on
its feet.

It will learn fast
to run fast; run
zigzag, cut lanes
& fly.

The world
is a beautiful
place—
full of scavengers.

-Jay Gandhi

The Forgotten One

The one that came first
has flown the coop.
She was prettier than you,
smarter,
had feathers made of gold.
The one who came second
died in a storm
that lasted thirty years.
He was kinder than you,
gentler,
had feathers as delicate as petals.
Now it’s just you here,
sullen and plain,
feathers tattered like rags
and an egg that will never hatch.

-Susan Richardson

Anatomy of a Chicken

Red jungle-fowl descendant,
Gallus gallus,
Numbering 23.7 billion,
These are the real dominators Of the globe.
Perhaps it’s no wonder,
In Greece
They taught valor. But today,
This mighty omnivore
Is reduced to
General Tso’s and Tikki Masala.
The aggressor, become victim.
So, what’s a chicken made of?
Surely not fear,
But resignation.

-st

Bios and links

-Jane Cornwell