by Niko Hebron
Sit beneath the shaded pine
with its neck twined between
your index and thumb, crossed
and promised. This rooster fought:
your hands bleeding, your face also
bleeding. The bird, blood-full
and pristine. It didn’t take much
for you to really get a grip on it,
using its own weight against the
spine. The hens, already settled
and grazing, know no difference.
To them panic passes quickly;
a wave of wings and screams
and shit now calm, waiting. You
have to get going. Chuck the body
into the compost. Pick up the eggs.
Niko Hebron, farmer’s daughter, chicken lover, queen of compost. Instagram: @nikohebron