print previewback MEGAN BLANKENSHIP
Hail Mary
It has been hard for all of us.
The hens refuse to sleep in their coop,
roosting instead atop the fence,
in low branches of the tree
beside the fence. Each night
I scoop them up, squawking
and flapping, and put them to bed,
whispering into their floppy combs
“don’t worry, girl” and “you’re so pretty.”
I’ve clipped their wings
almost to the quick. I’ve read
the news: of war, of discovery
of particles ever more minute,
of the inconceivable coming true.
I’ve wanted to be loved
with the gentle regard
the consciousless deserve:
so full of grace, snuck up on,
warm under the wings. 
Hail Mary
Pew