CHICKEN AND DEATH

 

 

I eat dinner with Death every night.

Last night we had quesadillas,

and I didn’t pray, didn’t thank God

or the democratic president for the cheesy rice before me.

I just picked at the shredded chicken with a sickle,

prodded the thing, standardized tested it

while Death just loitered.

 

I can see Him in my peripheral as I chuckle,

as I sip pink wine from a plastic cup spotted with detergent.

 

There are piss stains on the rug below

where Death marked his territory,

hiked his leg and pissed his fire.

 

He is on the ledge, between the books on the shelf,

on the fourth track of my Tchaikovsky record,

riding the carousel while I sit

as Holden Caulifield Indian-style in a chair,

under a Bodhi tree

watching the little circles of life, of death.

 

He is on the label of my Lexapro

with little winged sandals

holding a caduceus as a wand.

Voila he says, like an ass.

He is on the salt, on the pepper

singing, rapping in interludes,

dancing, piercing the table

with his stake of ownership,

shaking his ass like an ass.

 

I roll my eyes and prod my chicken,

fill my sickle with soul food,

consume it, offer him a bite,

and like an ass, he says sure.