Issue 165

Winter & Spring 2024

Image from According to Sun Ra, None of Us are Real

Poetry Allisa Cherry Poetry Allisa Cherry

Grief III

I pull the chicken meat from the bones, cube the meat,

boil the bones to broth. I try not to think about our sixteen laying hens.

How we called them by old-fashioned, feminine names.

How we praised them every time we pulled a shit-sticky egg

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