by Christine Potter
I learned to do it riding a stationary bike,
pedaling to nowhere while streaming
a stand-and-stir show: set a chicken on
its breast, press down until you hear it
crack, snip out its spine with kitchen shears.
Lemon and fennel come next, then
pat the bird with your experienced hand.
There! Add garlic, salt, olive oil. It will
cook evenly now. The problem with beef
is blood gets everywhere. But the problem
with fish and chicken is how often it’s
still a whole animal, okay, dead at least—
except for certain shellfish. But you have
to eat something. Even if it’s our own
seed-grown lettuce, something is going
to die. You, silk-sheer Simpson Elite,
washed by my gentle fingers, now in the
dark, near-freezing vault of our fridge,
even you have been ripped from tender
roots and will not grow again. The cat
eats half his food, and then settles in the
living room with my husband. The news
is on: someone’s about to get crushed.
I hone a carving knife on its steel. Supper!
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