know when they’re going to die. It’s why
she leaves the flock, lays beneath
the magnolia bush while her sisters clamber
into the coop, presenting herself only to us
the next morning. Sure, I’m projecting—
a human trait. But imagine walking
into your own brutal death
in the processing plant.
It’s no surprise, Lisa says,
we’re such fearful creatures—
full on chicken wings and fried chicken
sandwiches and sesame chicken
and chicken salad and rotisserie
chicken and BBQ chicken, chicken
fingers, chicken pot pie, chicken parmesan,
chicken & waffles—we’re always eating
fear. I swear I’ll stop every time I look
at our own small flock from our kitchen
window while preparing Korean fried
chicken. And why do I need to include
that extra adjective when I tell you what
I’m cooking? If I only said fried chicken,
would you render me whole or only smell
paper buckets and grease? Watch me lick
the fat from my fingers over a plate
of bones? The things I love will kill me
and kill the ones I love. The chickens
outside, Lisa and I—full on sweet dark meat.
Copyright © 2025 by Gary Jackson. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on January 5, 2026, by the Academy of American Poets.
