Ostrichland
       

Before I went full-on, pinioned-wing crazy,
you whisked me on a wine tour, pulled off

the route so I could empty out ashtray change
onto the counter in front of a lady gripping

a sword-long quill in hand and cradling an egg
the size of a toddler's head in the other.

A dollar bought the two of us, dustpans of pellets
the birds bounced with their beaks like jacks.

i swayed toward the chicken wire and We Bite signs,
and you kept your distance, as if to refocus

the whole morning my aebleskiver tantrum
at the restaurant in Solvang, one shattered

French press, and this, humming for the emus,
amber-eyed and weaving their necks

like charmed cobras at my palmsful of feed.
You'd overheard a myth about the hens;

they bought one, nested it in the cup holder.
And I watched until it eclipsed the sun and burst

into a hatchling, eating floorboard bottle caps
and spark plugs and burrowing its head in my lap,

hoping if it could not see, it could not be seen.

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Copyright © 2015 Kristin Robertson All rights reserved
from Third Coast
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission