poem #11

roast chicken
The sheen of pink breasts and plucked skin
Peeked up from the roasting pan
You clucked, It’s a big hen
Then added rosemary and pepper
Shallots, thyme, and coriander
You bathed it in the Chardonnay
That I found fortuitously
You wanted white, not red
The bird mustn’t bake off color
I fell in love with chickens
Smothered in butter
I sometimes gauged us by the number
Of fowl we roasted and times we thundered
Against each other in the bed or kitchen
Dirtying oven pans and silk linen
One act as messy as the other
You roasted the chickens better
Than me—when I had cheddar
I bought the Champagne
You fell in love with me
You tired of that refrain
I tired of that refrain
We had nothing left to toast
No more chickens to roast
Evelyn B. Hirschworth
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