A Year after the Abortion

We thought the leghorn
and Greg Brown no longer laid.
Come look, my lover said.
Nestled in wall insulation,
its paper layer pecked
clear through, lay seven eggs,
four brown, three white
in the back of the shed.
Unsure how long they’d been,
though January and February
probably preserved them,
I smashed them in the run
and fed them to their hens,
who do not mind to peck and pinch
their unborn from the dead.

2015