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She calls my cock, Rooster. Struts in with dawn. Out with dusk. Pecks at the corners of her fertile yard.

Sometimes, inside it.

If need be, he’ll leave her chicks. Tiny heartbeats with her breath and my bone. Legacy born in the barn’s hush.

He doesn’t ask. He announces. Ornery in the mornings, hard with farmwood made damper by her dew.

It slicks the entrance. Soaks the bedding. Makes the nest quiver. She squeals into her apron as if the harvest depended on noise.

He cock-a-doodle-fcks* between her breasts. He crow-chants inside her hen house. He mounts her with rural grace and ungodly precision.

The coop never stood a chance.

Her moans wake the farmer’s daughter.

That thin wall isn’t made of much. And the sound? It carries. Low and warm like a storm brewing in the crops.

The girl feigns sleep, blanket clenched like it might stop the quaking.

But her hands betray her. They wander. Lower. Slower. Testing how far from the rooster a whimper can travel.

The sigh that leaves her mouth is soft and accidental. But it neglects her ruse.

Because no one sighs like that in their sleep. And no one not listening gasps with her name in their throat.

Meanwhile…

The rooster rears again. And this time, the bed frame scratches the floorboards like confession.

He lays her open like land ready for seeding. She clutches the pillow like it’s scripture. And takes. Every thrust like tithe.

Her barn burned down weeks ago. And now he fcks her in the ashes.*

She calls him Rooster. Because he doesn’t wait to be fed. He feeds himself.

Because he reminds her body what it’s for. Not display. Not decor.

But harvest. Mating. Sound. Function.