by Debdutta Pal
Go play with the chickens.
I knew that tone, I knew when to conserve my battery.
A week on a farm wasn’t going to tilt the city girl in me,
I liked wide open skies,
fields greener than two crayons, and the static of Television just fine,
but even at eight, I knew it wasn’t mine.
I didn’t want to comfort anything we’d carve for tomorrow’s lunch.
“Hypocrisy,” she enunciated the word, like all others—
a teaching moment.
The smarter I spoke, the more compliments she received,
on a demanding job well executed.
I didn’t understand why the ducklings chased me back,
when chickens couldn’t leave their spot.
If they didn’t like me, I’d certainly remember,
because I know it was the first time I was revolted by blood.
You could always switch to vegetables,
they said at the dinner table, laughing before I answered.
Discussion, they called it. Disappointment, disagreed my heart.
Hunting for sport, my brain would footnote, ten years later.
Their feathers were a bland shade,
wattles vibrantly terrifying, when I made snow-angels on hay,
posture closed, like they didn’t want to make friends.
Was that a choice? I wondered aloud,
and their answering clucks sounded the same.
Sand passed through double glass helices,
we became familiar strangers who nodded,
never making circumstances less black and white.
Five days since I’d crossed the threshold
of my throat bobbing with seasons of defeat.
Did she really like it here?
They stage whispered, waiting for a profound summary.
I had much to say,
like, I learned what family meant from turtles and cows,
but my mouth mimicked a carcass, refusing to animate.
It offers zero cooperation, twenty-six years later,
when restaurants ask for meal preferences,
my mind still stuck between devouring and sacrificing.
Debdutta Pal would rather be watching Netflix, but her brain demands some conscious decluttering. Her work can be found on Medium and Substack.