A weird thing about the whole chicken I bought yesterday. When Frank took it out of the butcher paper, it had no wings. A wingless, pink body.
I remember when I stood in front of the glass cases at Lunardi’s yesterday morning, happy to see the dozen or so lined up on the ice, that the chickens seemed both small and somehow compact, but I was more interested in getting the butcher’s attention, and actually relieved that there were fresh chickens available, than in studying poultry anatomy.
At dinner, the roasted chicken became a macabre metaphor for our current situation and lent itself to some gallows humor between Frank and me. Wings are his favorite part, and we joked how I was torturing him further to bring home a chicken with, as Dr. Seuss writes in The Sneetches, “none upon thars.” We laughed off the darker comparisons, though of course they remained. And I couldn’t help but wonder why they’d been de-winged, and why the butcher had said nothing? It seemed like something from a Fellini film.
Anyway, day five is a bit darker. Low, gray skies. An unfortunate stomach upset this morning. Feeling flightless, wanting to fly. Or flee.
A wingless chicken. I’m just saying.
Now, I’m going to hit publish and go for a walk that I don’t feel like taking. It’s kind of dreary out there. I’d hoped for a hike somewhere today, but after this morning’s slow-down, I’ll stick to the local streets. Walking, writing, making music, riding a bike, reading all the lovely poems friends are posting, weeding, dancing with ourselves, singing loudly, making phone calls, baking, cleaning, re-organizing, bingeing, reaching out, taking a drive in the car (is that allowed?), breathing deeply, even looking out the window, hoping…these are our wings for now.
We are not wingless. It only feels like it. I hope you’re using yours today however you can.
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