Your fear is justified at the top of the stairs
when you slowly open the weathered door
and find a yellow chick and purple boa froth
of frightened feathers that make no sense.
The red book promise partly lured you up
treads and risers you crept and crept by one
until your wet palm grazing the bronze knob
released leathery rain on a gold sweat day.
A vocal chorus cried as the roast browned,
forgetting the rich dance of sauce and slurry
celebrating a pale union of broth and white
that twists unto silver tongues a plated joy.
Into this sweet miracle your children are born.