I released the chickens from the coop
to peck at the dry corn feed—all
we could afford. My son climbed
into the hutch and announced I will now
lay eggs—since the hens had given him
a place. He hunched over the hay,
and I reached around to pluck
the ceramic egg from its seat
among the nests, bore it for him.
The ceramic decoy meant to serve
as a model—though much like us,
the hens hungered without room
for the effort of production. My son
told his brother, I will now lay another
for lunch. Many eggs were laid those days,
but it wasn’t until years later I told
my son he was a rooster.