The Hen Swallows a Worm or Slug

We scratch at the backyard together through leaf mould, worm casings she kicks off in a fan behind her. I use a stick to dig, to find for her what she’s shown me near the roots, at the edge of a step—sticky slug on the underside of a hosta’s leaf. How complicated she is and how resigned. Between her beak and my outstretched hand, the worm’s writhing. Then the long slick going down. It fills the throat, like all that’s swallowed. Her head chucks it back, for the worm again dark. The hen’s pupil dilates. She wends and follows. Her queries, sighs, low gurgles, the hastening click of her nails on pavement then hungry again into the grass. Grubs are larger than pale yellow larvae I prize from inside chestnuts. These mucousy blind wanderers she eats right from my palm. Nevertheless I am repulsed by my husband’s embrace. I turn now from his thick belly, breasts, his interests. A body I had clambered over, loved. I scrabble, struggle. I cover myself. Another sticky truth dug up that I must re-bury— sorry on hands and knees, hungry and wary.