Hen-Pecked
Feathered in fire,
a blood heat of
red stolen coals
under your wing;
soles calloused by
the mountain road
long as loneliness;
step after hot step
chicken-foot lurch
home - what home?
frigid nest of stones.
Come chill moon-fall
you will be pecked
half-way to a death
by the beak of love,
feathered in a grin.
Copyright © Chris Nash | Year Posted 2015
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