My chickens died.

Image result for welsummer chickens


Got burned in a fucking hole.

The feathers spitting, stinking.

Body parts moving.

The dead panic.


Warm smoke in the afternoon,

a hundred or more black clouds and

waves goodbye into the shitty grey sky.


Omnivorous flames eat the bodies

alive in here one last time, in the space I left in the garden

I meant for growing.


Cloudy eyes gawp,

haze over, bubble,

boil and pop, then

the short sounds of clucking

from the depths of steaming lungs and up into the throats

of the two hens in harmony.


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