The Hen Swallows a Worm or Slug

through leaf mould, worm casings she kicks off

in a fan behind her. I use a stick

to dig, to find for her what she’s shown me

near the roots, at the edge of a step—sticky

slug on the underside of a hosta’s leaf.

How complicated she is and how resigned.

Between her beak and my outstretched hand,

the worm’s writhing. Then the long slick going

down. It fills the throat, like all that’s swallowed.

        Her head chucks it back,

        for the worm again dark.

        The hen’s pupil dilates.

        She wends and follows.

Her queries, sighs, low gurgles, the hastening

click of her nails on pavement then hungry

again into the grass. Grubs are larger

than pale yellow larvae I prize from inside

chestnuts. These mucousy blind wanderers

she eats right from my palm. Nevertheless I am

repulsed by my husband’s embrace. I turn

now from his thick belly, breasts, his interests.

A body I had clambered over, loved.

I scrabble, struggle. I cover myself.

        Another sticky truth dug up

        that I must re-bury—

        sorry on hands and knees,

        hungry and wary.