This Barn

forever in limbo,
who will buy indulgences
for its rafters?
Who will listen
as it blames the rope?
Empty since the dusk
it became a grandmother
clock, pendulum swinging
to the door, to the pen
of rabbits, three seconds
in each direction,
long enough for the sky
to pull the blanket
of grass up to its chin
and tuck in for the night,
long enough for my cousin
to split two chickens
from their heads
and pluck them clean
for supper.

When they found her,
nobody noticed
if her fingers had rope burn
I came to ask the dairy cows
if they heard her choke
out cries for help
or only an unwritten note,
if she felt the bruises
appear below her jowls
like a necklace of coal,
if she danced
the Charleston in the air,
if the piss down her leg
kept her toes warm,
if three seconds,
then six,
nine,
twelve,
were long enough for her
to look down
and see the cracking
of eggshells, tiny beaks
poking through.