Past Midnight, the Chicken Falls On Her From Above
bumpy webbed feet scratching her chest, beak pecking her arms as she enfolds it— what’s she supposed to do with this creature? Red and black feathers smelling of manure, repetitive pock pocking. She shushes like breeze over wheat, rising, carrying the bird to the kitchen lest it wake her husband, one hand stroking it, another preparing oatmeal—raisins, cinnamon, splash of milk, like her daughter liked it—restraining the chicken from entering the microwave, heating the porridge, then cooling it with breath. Watching the bird eat, saying, “Soon, we’ll draw you a warm bath and sing the Old Macdonald song.”
Photo Credit: Sarah R.
Excellent piece, love it !