I drive fast, Breaking laws and speed limits,

With a dying chicken in my arms. 

I tell her,

It’s ok. 

You will not die alone. 
My nails are painted and they match 

The dying chicken in my arms. 

This is my mundane life-

Minus the mundaneness.
We are buff colored gold. 

With a splash of red. 

Her in the eyes and on the head. 

Me on the ring finger. 

She is natural beauty. 

I am glittered unnatural.

She is purring in my arms while I kiss her feathers. 

She smells so earthy. 

More natural than I can ever hope to be. 

Claim to be
I am holding my dying chicken on the cold steel table. 

I make sure the coolness of it touches her because she has a fever. 

We both have fevers from life. 

Our mundane lives. 

Minus the mundaneness. 

She has is a brace and beautiful chicken. 

She came from squalor. 

The wrong side of the tracks that she never chose. 

Caged up and moved around. 

Left in mud. 

Her perfectly crooked toes, once frozen in place for god only knows how long. 

She comes from a brood of strugglers. Of starving girls just like her. 
I always take in the most outwardly broken to heal what’s inwardly wrong with me. 

Whose soul am I saving?

All souls are the same,

I say. 

The chicken deserves to live. 

She’s not just a chicken. 

She’s a chicken with a soul.

She rests in my arms. 


I’m taking her home to rest. 

For the night. 

For two nights. 


This is my mundane life. 

There’s nothing at all mundane about death. 

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