coq

Ain't nothing like tearing a whole slow-poached chicken apart with your hands and eating whatever you care to of it as you do.

I pretended it was my pigeon, briefly.  Someone took a chunk of the pigeon's wing that was left over after nature had its way with the carcass and stuck it vertically into the log bench in the squirrel grove next to my building.  A slender white flag.  I like this: a circulation of pieces whose past is unknown.  The person who stuck the wing there did not see the hawk strike and tear agonizingly at its wing; didn't see me happen by and scare the hawk away; this person didn't see me standing in my long yellow coat with the brick over the pigeon, mr. pigeon, shuddering to breathe but complacent in his final seconds.  Bird bones crunch like ice.  

I start thinking about feather headdresses.  I dig the meat from the crevices in the back of the chicken stand-in with my fingers and start seeing pieces of myself in its skeleton.  Sacrum.  I think of the pigeons who live under the overpass next to the building I work in, and how they sound like a brook.  I think of Hurricane, the dove in the magic shop.

I'm getting too deep here.

I painted the table.

I did not take the recycling.

I ate s'mores with friends they were awesome.

I made a chicken.