chicken soup 

if i could be the animal star
i would get sick without any feathers.
turn the tv into a cathedral & pull
the curtains shut. in the house
that no longer exists, there were
birds in the walls. i followed them
to a boiling face. none of us had teeth.
beaks in the bruised spring. 
i am getting to the age where the past
is really sepia toned. where one of
the old words work. chipped bowls.
can lids turned into bells. 
my father's knuckles turn into
chicken knees. salt & corn. i have a fever.
school building inside a little tupperware.
i get my nostalgia license & abuse it 
from the get-go. meat & hair have
a lot in common. strands & sinew. 
the jump rope i did not use. the chickens
we did not have but somehow found
their way into our food. grocery stores
without any smiley faces. just the smell
of tunnels & gasoline. i get a really
good spoon & look for something to drink.
a potion that will give me the view
from the overpass. our "secret spot"
that everyone knew about. the cars
full of chickens driving beneath us.
waiting to be turned into soup. 
broth spills from all the faucets. 
i pour a bath. soak myself until i am tender.
until i break apart under the press
of the back of a spoon.