Sharpening the Hatchet

What if each gossamer line of red at a turkey's throat
revealed the story of time, beginning to end?
American bagua
Barnyard tarot, fleshy revelations spilling beneath
sharp beaks, the labial gates of life
or an unending disembowelment in crimson flesh.

The humble cock has his comb, the dog
jowls, humans have ascots and hubris
while the turkey stands large with his
omnipotent waddle
guarding his secrets as he wardens his hens.

Are there gods, young bird?
Zeus, Demeter, and Ra molding
your flesh with their fingers, laughing
at our clumsy ignorance, the way
we brutishly bump about, slice
through their words in your throat
and call it Thanksgiving,

spread silly legends of your brothers drowning
in the rain. "Too stupid," we say,
"to stop watching the sky"
when it's falling, your gelatin eyes
staring up at Persephone in summer,
Anubis, and Orpheo. While we choke
out vulgar laughter, a million years
transpire between you.

—Embley Veronica Noechel

Embley Veronica Noechel's work has been published in numerous literary magazines. She lives in Raleigh, North Carolina.