“For those who would kill chickens” by Amy Miller

As a writer I love to read and share other peoples work as much as possible. I read this poem online at http://www.rattle.com/poetry/ and it blew me away.

I wish I could show you
how we saved him. Named him
Steven, stupid name
for a chicken, but
when he wandered
out from the woods,
black sheen hooked
with leaves and the crazy
red rubber of his comb,
we had to call him
something. I thought
Lucky after a horse
stomped him so hard—
caught in the corral
like a mouse in traffic—
then maybe Rip
when he tucked his head
in the elbow of the foreman’s
wife and fell asleep
in her arms. Steven,
she whispered—who knows,
some baby or a friend
long gone—and it stuck.
I could show you
my sandwiches he pulverized,
his crooked Jagger dance
on the paddock’s dusty stage,
how each of us came
to grudgingly help
this alien flown from some
coop, how a thing
like that takes root
on a shelf in a dark
tack room, settling
on an overshirt you meant
to take home that now
is sacrificed—no matter—
to this thing you’ve named,
that needs you. Each night
we closed and locked
that door against whatever
was out there
that hadn’t yet learned
his name or the iridescence
of his weak and perfect wings.

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