Hen huddles on her nest,
egg begins to rock to the
thumping heart, till beak
pierces a way out, the lights
come on, and scratching out
a life begins.
You are a world away, gone
while you had skin in a
game you would not accept.
Why would you? It wasn’t you.
You chose not to be who you were,
and forfeited the game.
Nonetheless, the dice rolled forward.
There’s the piece you left on the board.
Lost. Its intelligent capacity for love
lives loose and restless on this field—
a thumping heart, scratching out a life.
—Martha Ward
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