Ode to Chicken

photo by Denis Shevyakov

When mom goes to the barbecue shack on Route 30, 
she buys a chicken for each of us 
wrapped tight in foil, marinated in pepper and spices. 
At home, we sit around the table 
with a bird on each of our plates, no sides,
pressing butter knives or grease-covered fingers 
into the soft meat
and throwing bones into an empty bowl.
We don’t talk—just excavate and chew—
and the only sounds until we finish 
are the clatter of forks
and the cries of robins and blue jays
through an open window.
Occasionally, one of us leans back with a napkin 
and sighs, wiping their face clean,
before plunging back in.
Afterwards, plates are scraped
and leftovers stowed in the fridge
for days of chicken salad
and cold sandwiches with lettuce and mayo.
Like animals after feeding, we slink off 
to couches and chairs under ceiling fans, places
where we can close our eyes
and listen to our stomachs gurgle and pop. 
There is nothing left to do.
I go outside, barefoot, and walk to the tree
behind the wood pile. The dirt is forgiving 
under my hands, covered 
by a layer of moss. Into the hole, I empty 
the secret napkin I’ve carried 
full of wet bones staining the pocket of my dress.
In a month or so, I’ll come back, 
dig in the same place marked 
with stones and pinecones,
and only find earth.