Sunday in Skagit Valley

and you’re taking me to see the tulips. But there are no tulips.
There! but those are daffodils, crimped trumpets hailing

gaily along the highway. There! but those are dandelions,
dressed in delicate lace. On Caledonia we walk and gawk

at clay chickens cast in copper kettles, ceramic gloves, wrists overrun
with ranunculus and ferns. There! Many-hued teacups, hung

on the spokes of a wind vane. There! Yellow-throated pansies,
fresh as if just finished. In the Gallery & Gift Shoppe, a vase

like a melted breast, nipple hardened to a point.
Is this a local artist? you ask, the Gift & Gallery way

of saying: Is this farm-free free-range free-trade chicken?
Actually, the Shoppekeeper says, it’s from Thailand.

You point to me: she grew up in Thailand. The Shoppekeeper turns
to look, thinking of her four-day cruise down the Chao Phraya,

the elephant rides & long-necked ladies who kept calling,
calling to each other. Under the gaze of Jungle Fowl ($138),

Winged Fowl ($118) and Dodo Bird ($98), I press my palms together,
an old gesture from my childhood of steepled fingers, bowed heads,

chicken chasing and that glorious afternoon when I caught one
streaking past: held it high as it chook-chook-chooked in conquered

chicken-speak, unwieldy wings flexed in upside down flight. Sawadti ka!
the Shoppekeeper calls. A blast of bells wrangles into the street.

As If

this, my wish: to be cord-
shorn, wrapped in white.

My unwashed neck’s been
rung with gold. As if this

were the god whose head
I wished to crown, the one

whose hem I wished myself
beneath. He rubbed my

wound with salt, stitched
me shut like lace. My wild

tongue whistles, I’m all in-
cisor & skull. Ruff-bitten,

tooth-cut, I rustle in my rude
warren, pluck fur from my

belly to line my nest. We
the hunted are formed to

flee, feet furred for speed.