Chickens Come And Go Poem by James McLain

Looking back at it,
I am strangely compelled to move my jaw suddenly,
towards the drawer.
The mirror does not move at all except when.
Dad has me think that I slipped and that it opened.
To find one, and that I am shown it is a male chicken.
The rooster was what he said.
It is dad and inserts that finger directly into the chicken.
He leads that to my cat.
Don't cats eat chickens I ask?
I ask how the chicken moves with no feet?
Puppy style,
which I saw out of my window when it was raining.
Pop goes, the girl.
He says.
That was a weasel.
The chicken is squeezed by the neck.
It snaps my memories and felt the lip outside of me.
And through the heart, I am pierced.
The chicken more loudly, I shout.
To be, the father!
To be, Singing told the mischievous daughter, and oh,
dad have mercy and have more chicken than I need right now.
As for me dad and chickens, you have grown to know.
And to think back to then I would ask?
Dad when I grow up, why do all the chickens come and go?