Meanwhile, In the Kitchen, June Cleaver Was Spotted Hoisting a Refrigerator to Free Her Youngest Son
Jill Wickham

When he struck it, three tiny chicks scurried
from under their dead mother’s wings.
—from a widely circulated e-mail

There are things a woman can not do.
Walk naked from house to house
asking for a cup of flour, a teaspoon

of sugar, begging like an orphaned cat.
A woman should not feed worms to her children,
walk naked from house to house,

hide in bushes watching other families dining.
These are the bare days, empty as blown eggs.
A woman should not feed worms to her children,

even while they tip their heads, mouths wide,
throats bared, narrow as knife blades.
These are the bare days, empty as blown eggs,

vintage honey-baked homespun, torn at the edges.
This is when the wolves enter in,
throats bared, narrow as knife blades

and women pray for their grandmothers.
There are things a woman can not do.
This is when the wolves enter in,
asking for a cup of flour, a teaspoon.

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