In the plywood and wire mesh henhouse

Grandma collects eggs

in a pulp carton,

wiping each

with her linen apron.

Her glasses fog as sweat beads

behind the white kerchief

that binds her hair, unkempt.

Droplets trickle

onto hay stuffed in nesting boxes.

One by one, she tucks

each grainy egg into a slot—

the same way her daddy repotted

her momma’s red roses

after her sudden death—

until only one cup remains

empty. Grandma

reaches for the last egg

and when the brooding hen

clucks, thrusting its beak in defense,

she clasps the bird’s head

with one wrinkled hand

while the other glides

under its copper feathers

and emerges, cradling the prize.

But when Grandma

peers into the chicken’s eyes

only black mirrors stare back.

She remembers

in the walnut chest

by the foot of her bed

the christening gown, baby shoes

never worn.

She looks above

through the pollen-dusted skylight

to see the pink sky, white

dogwood and pear tree blossoms

flutter—

before giving the egg back.