Yeva Adalyan: The Cat and the Chicken

The Cat and the Chicken

He loves me in my absence
I hide behind curtains when I'm present...
She ran around like a chicken with its head cut off...
occasionally though fixing the lace collar around her neck... by habit of course.
Habit of looking pretty, eating fatty, throwing confetti, feeling shitty...
Habit of throwing carpets before turmoils - a sign of respect
Habit of gracefully opening doors in front of thunder and lightning - a sign of pride
Habit of bowing low in front of boundaries - a sign of strength.
The chicken raised its wings to hold the aching head
and lowered them in disappointment
Where is the head though, the chicken wondered...
It couldn?t possibly be cooked for some candle-lit dinner
It must be around somewhere, the chicken was hopeful.
He loves me in my absence
He has no patience for my presence...
Too heavy to throw away
Too light to be considered priceless...
The chicken crashed insects while it was running...
Had it become insensitive or a bit blind perhaps?
Not enough time to analyze
Not enough time to undo the fact
He hugs me in my sleep
Casting his shadow only when I?m awake...
The chicken slowly losing hope
Hope of a head fried for some lunch
Not enough salt
Excessive pepper
Incoherent absence of brain
Pierced tongue and earrings
Tattooed lips
And lasered sideburns
The chicken gets ready to jump out of the fence
Gets enough courage to join its head, be fried in Canola Oil and Mayonnaise
Salt is too painful
Is holding it back... for a short bit though...
Next step is desperation
The next one is fear
The last one - giving up.
The frying pan's getting excited
Canola starts singing
Mayo losing its texture
Salt acting all innocent
Pepper stays red - unable to hide its shame for participating in this feast...
Feast of forgetting
Feast of rebellion against all memories
Feast of ignored reconciliation
Feast of immature intensities and premature ejaculations
Feast of roast chicken with the wings still shaking
Pierced tongue still infected
Tattooed lips still bleeding
And sideburns growing back.
He loves me naked but my Mary Janes on and unpolished
He likes watching but not touching
He wears striped shirts with a Hustler Hollywood undershirt
He likes to hide but forgets his boxers under my sheets
He asks me to forget his face, accidentally leaving his snapshot in my dresser
He pretends to listen with earplugs in his ears and hands covering their surface
He pretends to see with his eyes wide shut and curtains safely closed.
The chicken is done, well done I should say
Its smell is immaculate
Its taste close to perfect
Its texture most tender
The hunger is quenched
Everyone applauding
Cook left for the night
Gates are all locked
The spirit of the chicken traveling the world
A life short lived though sweet
Time for new skin and bones
Strong wings, toned and stretched legs
Growing feathers, attentive eyes... and a will to fly.

Copyright 2004 Yeva Adalyan