I can't speak about my father,

by Ashley Varela

Content Warning: animal death, non-explicit allusions to child abuse

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so let me tell you about the chicken, instead:

unbolted from the yard
and how it streaked toward him that morning,

the way my great-grandmother yanked the beak

from its target (his legs — no, between them)
and felt for the easy break.

Hands wet and feathered in the sun.

I can't speak about my father, so let me
tell you about the chicken I plucked

in my mother's kitchen, knuckles buried

in the carcass and sliding fat
from each wing. Rooting around

in the hollowed neck,

fishing for the hinge
of wishbone,

I wanted to feel something break in my hands.

I can't speak about my wish, so let me
tell you about the easy break of my skin

the morning my father became a chicken.

My wet neck and hollow in the chest. Then,
how much sun feathered my body.

How lucky I felt to be

loved so much,
and

still alive.

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Ashley Varela (they/them) is a queer writer & author based in Seattle, Washington.