KJ Hannah Greenberg,
Communicated Childbirth Options

That songbird, that pretty passerine, with wheaten wings,
Coal black eyes, tufts of blue tail feathers, lit upon a pook
In my field, at dusk.

‘twas determined to twitter while all manner of proceedings
Betided beneath sheaves. Mice supped, owls glared even as
Voles harvested dinner.

Nearby, tegs and lambs, born offseason, quietly masticated
The year’s last grass. Those bovine reft all remaining stalks
Among the toxic lianas.

For me, our farm’s stream was wai enough for toes’ dipping.
I’d rather July to October. Sunburn’s superior to hoarfrost (I
Prefer warm climes.)

Among pastures, agouti nibble their weight in grain. As well,
My overfilled creel evidences seasonal fish, the profusion of
Tiny schools found in cornfields’ streams.

In Grandma’s day, no sibilant, bra-burning women dared
To make upa over stacked dishes, cigarette-strewn floors,
Much muddy laundry quit as unsorted, ungainly mounds.

Bilious females were censored thru lack of courters, lack
Of hire, lack of happiness. Unless padlocked into casitas,
Those wenches knew no modus of routine contentment.

Thus, they’d hide smarts under hoop skirts, conceal all
Creativity by scouring pans, else bury their inner lights
Thru providing cates, tapestries, extended joy for men.