You, my love, are a darling little pullet
and I am the china egg you squat upon.
I am the ear that hears your hungry clucks,
the hand that carelessly scatters feed,
the eye that watches you scrabble in the dirt.
I am the wire cage so narrow
you have no room to pirouette,
I am the fox that lurks in the shadows,
licking his lips beneath the coop.
I am the ax you interrupt on its way
to rendezvous with the stump,
yet when you are gone, your carcass plucked
and boiled into soup, I am the one
who ends up running headless around the yard.