Blackbirdan online journal of literature and the artsSpring 2017  Vol. 16 No. 1
an online journal of literature and the arts
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Letter 5

You, Mr. Hen, are chicken mostly because you ran away. A rooster could never lay an egg like you did, would never lay as many eggs as you did without looking after them. I don’t like talking about the eggs. Sometimes I feel like I hadn’t paid attention to anything before then. You’d think I’d hatched from one of them. Sometimes when people confuse them for actual eggs, I giggle. I giggle so much I bend over. I curl myself into the fetal position, and struggle for breath until I cry. The endorphins do their job. They tell my body something I don’t actually feel, and I dwell there in a haze, and I figure that out, too. People might ask me how I feel about it if they knew what happened. I don’t think I could tell them. But if I were pressed to say something, I’d say it’s kind of like that.  

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