Chicken Dinner

Sleepy eyes and microwave beeping, stove fan hummmms.
I never made it to dinner, too busy staring at a blinking screen.
Irony chuckle about memorized life goals.  Beep beep beep.
I didn't bother to cover cold chicken... popping and sizzling on the white disk.
Steam and juices already overflowing from mass of meat
one bone held by thumb and index I rip the body apart, twisting
and breading flops to the side.  Outside fat and smooth,
splitting lines and lines on the inside, like celery but spicy
and more malicious on the base back of my tongue. 
A grease high. I stop scraping my palms off between bites
and a thick marination up to my wrists
turns me orange. 
Pulling at some other part,
I can see each individual, curving rib bone, black against a golden breading in light
cooked translucent, the spine curving into a wing opening for flight.
And then I realize- I forgot the chicken. 

The pile of dark bones and burnt ends stares.
Rivulets of blood always move ridiculously slowly
from the murdered. 
It is a very large pile. 
In all of this,
I forgot the chicken. 


-Citron