I named them all
though my mother
told me never
to name dinner.
I did: Sally, Ann, Nancy, Birdie
the hens only pecked
when I took their eggs;
speckled cream or brown
and warm from setting
the rooster
I didn’t name
because we warred–
we took turns chasing
each other–him,
with those spurs ready,
or me
grabbing him by the legs
& spinning him dizzy;
retaliation
for the scar I still carry
on my right arm
naming
was insurance–
we might have had
fried chicken for dinner
on Sundays
because of those names
it was never Nancy
or Sally
on the table
but it was never
that rooster, either
Susan Daniels Poetry 