Little Plastic Bag of Chicken Organs
My dad retrieved from up the chicken’s arse,
and I played with on the counter,
squishing blood in the bag against the melamine,
shaking giblets in the trapped air
of their little balloon, listening
to the heart drum against the side
like a leather ball being kicked.
My dad fried it up, excited but reserved
in what was being revealed; chopped the heart
and passed one half to me: I nibbled –
strong taste of iron – then ate my half whole.
We shared the kidneys, and the liver of a calf:
velvet of liver under fingers,
a sharp knife’s need for slicing;
our cuts still red with blood while
kidneys and heart turned pink and brown.
It is autumn now, so it is autumn then:
my father dead in two years,
and the plucked skin of the chicken
cold and clammy under my hand
as a freshly shaved head,
palpable boned and slightly yellowing.
Forgive us, great animal helpers,
that we did not kill you ourselves.