They Call Her Chicken
Alicia Morris
They call her Chicken
Because little chicks
continually surround her;
Because they fall from her
like eggs from the Golden Hen rubbed
by an improvised hand.
Falling like rain
on fertile soil.
Her laughter is
like clucking
and her voice
a cross between
a bock and a chirp.
Tough—her thin short legs
support her productive belly
which wobbles about
in haste
for obvious reasons
They call her Chicken.
I am an octopus!
Arms everywhere
doing everything
planchar
cocinar
lavando los platos—
Stopping this one
from crying
and that one from
telling lies
and all they
try
to get away with—
Ay m'ija!
She tells me this
revealing to me
a different Grandma.
Not warm and fluffy
but skin stretched beyond its limit.
Arms extended to
redirect
what wants to wrinkle wayward;
to nourish
mouths that are always asking;
to wipe away stains that fall like rain
around outstretched fingers
that want
what they cannot yet reach
but send splattering
over counters in a house
that will never be
big enough
for all the heart inside.
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