Tag Archives: chickens


by Ethel Mortenson Davis after a conversation with Rita Hawes

Bought one of those
genetically modified chickens
(the one with the big breasts)

but she just sat there
in a clump
in the middle
of the yard–
didn’t get up
and peck and
scratch around

because her skinny
little legs couldn’t
lift her big chest
off the ground.

But that’s okay,
because a few weeks
in those little wire cages,
Big chicken breasts.

Millions of little cages whose
chickens are ripe
for picking.

My how we love our big breasts!

copyright 2010 I Sleep Between the Moons of New Mexico


Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry