Hen Eggs

Hen Eggs2

http://www.lindenavelit.com/issue-eight.html  

Stephen Page

 

Hen Eggs

 

 

 

I wake up late in the morning, ten o’clock,

 

To the shouts of children in the living

 

Room. I feel like

sleeping more, but stir and robe

 

 

 

Myself to stumble to the kitchen to pour

 

My first cup of coffee. 

The smell is rich

 

As bramble, but before I can sip into

 

 

 

Lucidity the screams of my three-year-old

 

Grandchild and four of her friends headache me to

 

Shower where I wash away last night’s dream.

 

 

 

I dress and backpack and ready to tramp

 

To the wood to find the myth, but my wife,

 

Who is watching the kids, is called

 

 

 

By the capataz to come look at the cows,

 

So she asks me to babysit until she returns.

 

I never asked to be a grandfather, nor responsibly

 

 

 

A father, but here I am, married to a woman

 

I love, a widow, a mother whose daughter

 

Has children: I am a grandfather by default.

 

 

 

We watch a Disney movie and sing and march

 

Around the coffee table—I intervening when

 

Their tags becomes shoves: 

I bore quickly.

 

 

 

My wife enters the back door and I bolt out

 

The front, Not making three strides across the lawn

 

Before she yells and asks that I start the asado

 

 

 

For her daughter and son-in-law who will arrive

 

In three hours. I

glance at the mottled

 

Trees at the edge of the wood, realizing how easy

 

 

 

It would be to just say ‘no’, to go to my real work,

 

Myth finding, but I set my backpack down on a white

 

Wooden bench and set fire to the kindling.

 

 

 

Four hours later, full of meats, wine,

 

And exhaustion from bending over a grill,

 

I drink a double espresso and ready myself to hike

 

 

 

Alone, restart my day, discover truths, but

 

My oldest grandchild grasps my hand and pleads

 

‘please, take me to pool, show me chickens,

 

 

 

walk with me,’ her

lake eyes large as sky.

 

I walk with her, show her the covered pool,

 

Explain to her that it is too late in the year

 

 

 

To swim, too cold; Walk past the reddening

 

Lawn oak, take her to the hen house, find a fresh

 

egg still warm for her to carry back to her mother.

 

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