Meg Freer grew up in Montana and lives in Ontario. Her award-winning photos and poems have appeared in anthologies and journals including NatureWriting, Mothers Always Write, Young Ravens Literary Review, Eastern Iowa Review and Rat’s Ass Review. Recently, she won a fellowship and attended the Summer Literary Seminars in Tbilisi.
A lost hen walked down
our city driveway this morning,
headed for a better spot
in the pecking order, or perhaps
someone’s evening soup.
The drumbeat in the song
on the car radio sounded
exactly like the turn signal,
or the hen’s tapping feet,
and I tried in vain to turn it off.
I received news of my mother:
“The toe that was bothering her
has been taken care of. When your feet
hurt, you hurt all over, so now she will
stand and sleep in comfort: Huzzah!”
When my daughter was young,
she used to write things on small
pieces of paper, random phrases
such as “ask the corn foot club”
or “the boot cracks in sore fury”.
Take me on a tour of the generations,
weave straight lines into curves, let me feel
the ache of evolution. Where words
leave off, what begins? My hands feel
the motions, braid invisible hair.