Like a chicken with its head cut off.
where to go but south?
I was never a chicken, but when I was
decapitated, I sure felt like one. Round
and around and around I spun, con-
stipated, confused, conned, bleeding.
If kids aren’t supposed to come into
the world anymore, then what about
love? If a wedding is pointless, then
what about eternity? Only a headless
chicken would ask itself such answer-
less questions. But, as I was spinning,
I began to pick up speed; I was a top
on a table with no mouth to feed. A
bottle that needed direction. The bottle
stopped and pointed south. A new world
in the distance shone like a lighthouse. Sure,
this one might be housing Willem Dafoe. If he
was there, I’d happily live with him until the life
boats came, which, of course, would never happen.
A headless chicken can, indeed, fly. It is the one power
that chickens are endowed with when their heads are taken.
So I flew south toward greener pastures, bluer skies, clearer days.
When I arrived, my savior was waiting: a rental car with a human GPS.
They told me to drive straight from the north coast to the south. There,
I would find my answer. So I tucked my wings in and drove, unable to see, being led to what I believed to be my death or life, or both. And there both were: the antithesis of my decapitator. A bare maiden with smooth, caring hands. I would never go north again, or look at anything the same way I did with my useless chicken…
