the cook and the bird

At thanksgiving dinner

I imagine myself both

the cook and the bird

carve carefully, make

the dead thing look delicious

and digestible

little mortician in a chefs hat


Belly up, the tongue wields the knife

cutting words from the net of air at the last

second, swallowing them again

until what’s left can finally fall

from the mouth In bite-sized chunks

so their ears may only hear

the delicious and digestible


All the while the knife moves from

wing to breast and thigh to leg

until the final bit of flesh has fallen from bone

and the head rolls off the table

leaving the giblets to lie between the ribs

like skinny fingers holding slime


The ear turns upwards on the floor

hears them say grace, give thanks

God bless this family- even me, for now-

and the food

so intricately prepared


dig in



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