Chickens

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.