Hannah Rogers  

 

     

 

     

                  Chicken Ain't Nothing but a Bird 

 

The work was

making animals.

 

All that is real are my

memories of saying

chicken, bird.

 

Eggplant stems, touch­me­nots,

mimosas dried,              

become feed, scratch

 

Shells of mussels, limestone

slivers from the ossuary

mineralize new eggs, dog food.

 

The morning gloat of what

was once only holy

denies wholeness.

 

Peter heard the birds, their

portraits only tronies,

ledgers in the barn.

 

The work animals do is

animal work.

 

 

 

 

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