I have kept watch over my emotions
like a broody hen who sets on,
to protect, her clutch of eggs.
She will pluck out all her belly feathers
one by one to keep them warm,
that her raw skin will come into
contact with them, and she
swell up like a puffer fish
if she perceives the slightest
threat, indeed she will lash out
as if her beak were full of venom.
Otherwise, she barely eats or drinks;
one might mistake her vigilance
for lethargy,  a moody melancholy.
With narrow slits her eyes mark
the approach of anyone
who might dare to broach
the matter of her discontent;
I tried to sneak another egg
beneath her and she bit me.
I knew exactly what she meant.