When I was a child, a chicken could be
a paper plate, white, and perfectly
circular, with a single black dot for an eye,
the spot where the wings belied
half-moons attached by clear glue.
Chickens could be flat, or they could be three-
dimensional. Round, square and-or pointy,
I could run my hand along the edges
while eating cheese and potato wedges.
No dirt would come off – just glue.
It could be a loss for children in the city,
or evidence that imagery is plenty:
all I know is chickens could be
whatever we wanted them to be
and still be chickens.
1. What do you think the theme or message of the poem is?
2. Are there any parts that feel abrupt or confusing? Or just parts that don't flow well?
Thank you for supporting the chicken poetry cause!