Chicks, Man

Did you know, friend
that for baby chickens
instincts as simple as
eat
need to be conjured
by another bird's
pecking at the soil?

Regardless of my
ramblings on gender
you still could call me
chick
not for identity but for
needing someone's care
to care for myself

I'm about as articulate
as my chicken-scratch
penmanship at
love
but you should know:
I appreciate the gentle
persistent pecking.

To live, to grow, even
when the world has me
wanting back in my
shell.
Even when I'm broody
it's under your wing
that I am reminded:

Shells were made to be cracked.