We have ten new babies—
ten turkey poults—
that Mama wants to raise
and “give away,” as she says,
for Thanksgiving.
It’s her way of saying
ten families will eat them for dinner.
But they are too cute to be eaten.
The poults will need to stay in the house,
where it’s warm, until spring
because the coop out back
doesn’t have the right heater.
So Mama set up the extra bedroom as an incubator
for the babies
and a cardboard gate to keep them in.
They clump at the gate
and peep whenever we talk or come down the hall
because I have spoiled them by sitting in the room with them.
They climb all over me, looking for food and cuddles.
“Don’t name them,” Mama says,
because then I won’t let her give them away in the fall.
But it’s too late—
Rufus has short wings,
Bobo’s claws are stubby,
and Shirley has a brown streak across her beak.
I wonder how I could bring them to my room
and let them sleep on my bed.