Henhouse, Foxhole
​Maison Shetty

Winter bites through the henhouse
and the spaces between slats 
let everything in; the wind cracks and chips away 
at the once-bright red paint.
The door hinges sing,
window mesh bends, and the hen
clutches her last egg under her wings
listening for crunching snow,
a flash of auburn fur, triangular ears and
a bushy tail
always looking the wrong way:
outward, never in--
And when it hatches, it comes out all wrong;
too many legs
too-sharp canines
too much fur, a brilliant red.
Hens crowd, searching for wings hidden underneath
it learns quickly, the rules of the henhouse
it learns not to bare its teeth too widely,
to yelp or bark or whine;
To retract its claws,
grow thin off birdseed and shame
but it always ends the same:
in the spring, the farmer approaches,
gripping a wooden handle, something cold
and sharp and smelling of blood
between his glistening rubber-gloved hands
reaching towards it, its empty jaw
searching for feathers.

Maison (PZ'29) is a writer from the Bay Area, CA. He likes poetry and horror.