Chives Poem by Julie Sheehan

You chop an onion, bone a breast, cradle
an artichoke's dense, thorny crown, you pluck
a chicken, a leaf, an eyebrow peddling luck
with love, you set a table, you seat, you ladle
your soup, you chomp an apple, you agitate
the linens. You agitate for justice. You piece
on chocolate, awaiting calls. You grease
your skids. You rot. You rule. You fail. You rate.
A verb intransitive is a claptrap thing.
Dredge it in flour, you might as well. Let tense
run riot. You pinch spent bloom, craving bitters
and Pimm's when you could go a-rummaging
through chives—those volunteers who in their dense
tufts at least know how to get together.