by Jamie Manias
They peck their dull beaks into the mud
rhythmically, complex metronomes, and sometimes
they pump their tiny wings hard
to lift their plump ruffled bodies towards heaven
(for a moment) and flap harder still
as they fall, tiny Icari, every one.
They do everything together. When one
raises her tail and her bony pinhead
to dash across the mud, the others follow
and they pepper the yard with clucks.
The yellow chicken, Nugget, especially
liked to dig her Harpy-talons into the leaves
and kick like a bull. Who can say
whether they feel a hole in their little sisterhood?
But for a week after the yellow chicken became, suddenly,
the red chicken, they tended to stop
and wait for her.
Jamie Manias earned their Poetry MFA at Bowling Green State University, where they helped edit Mid-American Review and wrote about microbiology. They now apprentice at a letterpress shop, printing stationery and snarky greeting cards. They’ve been published in Kismet Magazine, Fruitslice, t’ART, and elsewhere. Their Instagram is @jamiemanias.