The cracked red barn births a clutch
of baby chicks. And this is his chore,
 
to scoop and spread feed for scratching
and plucking. Scoop and spread. Bored,
 
maybe, he wrestles three chicks into his hand.
He’s thinking of red capes and Superman’s
 
phone booth, the comics of the big city,
as he walks to the bag of feed
 
to bury them. He urges the newly‐
caved to use their appetite to escape. Perhaps
 
he believes they will. Then, he goes fishing.
 
The twilight comes and the others go on
clucking. The corn goes on willowing.
 
Tomorrow he’ll watch the bull mount
whatever cow is ready. It will be
 
his mother, a few days later,
who uncovers the silent beaks,
 
the bony tufts of down.

---

Rebecca Connors was raised in the suburbs of Washington, D.C. and received her BA in English from Boston University. After living in multiple cities, she is back in Boston where she writes poetry and works as a digital strategist. Her work has recently appeared or is forthcoming in Eunoia Review, burntdistrict, Bird’s Thumb and Dialogist. Find her on Twitter at @aprilist.