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Topeka

Carly Taylor

Where it started:

I empty out another drawer

the undefined, the yes, forever, the orgasm

days. Possibly there were

openings, openings or—

the for sure, the keys, the window rolled down—

I walk down the steps

there is ice. You grip my elbow

say careful

say slip

once and again

and then

there were places, openings, a drive-in

and a backseat where

it started, where

there might have been

any number—

the aisle

and us on either side

until I walked out

and there was wind.

 

I am the chicken, the chicken, the one

Josh Tvrdy

before the egg. I am

all the secrets of the universe and I taste good

on a sandwich. Only God would cook this goose,

mystery and mayonnaise a mouthful

only for the divine. Though I am

not a goose—one-hundred percent chicken,

crossed all roads to arrive here, and here

is not the other side. Traveled so far

I reached Timbocktu, which is a bad joke,

terrible, but it’s okay, I’m the first and last

talking chicken. I should be allowed

to mock my own inability to speak: bock-bock,

mock-mock, back-back, yup.

I stay away from please and thank you

for I’m above such things, literally above

because yes, I can fly.

I flap my wings and trees

shake loose of leaves, branches wave

their bony hands hello, hello. Who is this

mystery chicken who works in metaphor?

You may call me Sir. I may call you

worm. I eat worms but won’t eat you, dear you,

though that reversal sounds delicious,

I hatched the whole world and you’re inside

this scramble I call we, and we

will never be eaten.