by Sarah Kilch Gaffney
The pullets have been laying
their eggs beneath the bee balm,
and I don’t have the heart
to watch them hover.
We have no rooster, but even
if there were a flicker
within those shells,
the hens refuse the nest box,
and the small, searching claws
and teeth are everywhere.
On the drive home
from a birthday party,
our daughter sleeping
in the backseat, I learned
that none of our eggs fertilized.
Next time, the doctor assured me,
we could increase the dosage,
try a different plan.
I reminded him
my husband was dying.
He wished me well, said he
hoped we would reach out
down the road with happy news
on our own, but I shook
my head in silence: his voice
traveling over the phone,
the connection cutting in and out
along the quiet, tree-lined road,
the hole forming
in my throat.
photo credit: Josh Taljaard, Unsplash
Sarah Kilch Gaffney is a writer, brain injury advocate, and homemade caramel aficionado living in Maine. You can find her work at www.sarahkilchgaffney.com and she is on Instagram @sarahkilchgaffney.