Quiet as Chickens

Carlos DeJuana

My wife claims she can smell them —

tell them apart even.

But I only smell green apple

when they wash their hair

and blueberry explosion

when they tell the truth

about brushing their teeth.

The little one has a demon inside

that I don’t know how to cure.

Tells me I’m quiet as a chicken.

How do I respond?

The older one, she whimpers at night

and suffers inexplicable terrors.

But they pass, as all things do,

and for a moment we are once again

quiet as chickens.