Free-range became more like an afterthought
as we carved out the root rot, the house’s riddle
swept under the bed, laziness converted into efficiency
while we’re bred to weather the sting of enclosure.
Our fingers have forgotten the fabrics sewn together,
electric silk of fox fur, hawk feathers. Hands poached
by hope and worn from years cracked in drought.
Our bodies roughed with shadows, stitched to obits

wearing life’s expiration tag tucked under one arm
as though it were charmed, when really we’re put to plot
like potted petunias wilting without water or shade.
We file our days: knitting needles to film sequels,
counting the eggs in our basket, and collecting their return,
we question if our roof hen is legal.