“A frozen hen can hurt you,”
my wife says,
plopping the Cornish
firmly on the kitchen island.
The first light of a Boston spring
makes precise and stylish lines
on one wall as I lift up the hen,
holding it like Hamlet held
the celebrated skull of Yorick.
“This can hurt you,” I say,
thinking more of the world
than I should be
and setting the hen back down,
gently, as if it were alive.
“Help me cut some potatoes,”
my wife says, “and you’ll feel better.”