Guarding the Coop

I watch for the fox that’s slaughtered
                                   three Rhode Island Reds, the hens
just lumps of bloodied feathers I buried
                                   before my son and daughter woke this morning.

A blackened poker in my hand, I’m not a man
                                   for guns. Even so, a box of loose buckshot
waits in the basement, passed down
                                   when my father passed on.

Just two chickens left. They recognize me
                                   as the taker of eggs, the bringer of grain.
Their needs are simple—to be fed,
                                   protected. They rush to me

when I dump watermelon rinds in their pen,
                                   dismantling the cool pink edges.
They’ve never seen me dash a butter dish
                                   against the floor. Never seen my trembling

kids picking up the ceramic bits—violence
                                   my inheritance. These days I swallow a pill,
pale as baby aspirin. It keeps me
                                   docile, but it hasn’t fully extinguished

that tug—the wrath my mother raised me with.
                                   I feel it now, scanning every shadow
for a set of canine teeth. Moonlight steals
                                   through the poplars. The hens are oblivious

in their roosts. The fox is nowhere,
                                   smart enough to know what I will do.