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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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