by Rachel Willems

              after the French performance artist who tried to hatch twelve eggs

Before you start sitting on a dozen eggs, notice
they are soft brown in twelve slightly different shades
and speckled. Spend your month remembering the speckles.
Spend your month reciting metaphors,
how breakable eggshell actually is.
Spend your month imagining names for each chick,
think of your own name, how loosely it fits you,
and yes, your parents had barely met you
but could have showed more insight, honestly.
Think about the name of the gallery
where (you hope) all twelve chicks will be well born:
Le Palais de Tokyo and its location,
13 avenue du Président Wilson. Think of Wilson
himself, the six months he spent in Paris
devoted to peace negotiations,
probably divided in his own mind, not living
long enough to see what short years his work lasted.
Think about tickets for rationing food,
the war cake your great-grandmother remembered—
sugarless, butterless, eggless and tasteless.
Imagine growing up a chicken in Paris:
You are somewhat more fashionable than other chickens
(it’s all about stance and the tilt of your feathers)
but you shrug this away and don’t take for granted…
you survived! Overturning expectations
you grew well in low-temperature incubation
with only two slight abnormalities—
a crooked beak and one wing shorter than the other
which is fine for a chicken who has all of Paris
and doesn’t often need to fly.