“You’re parked in the drive in a car full of chickens. You’re holding one against your belly, cradling it, the dead thing, the feathers clayed in shit, pucker-skinned and bloody. Through the windscreen it looks as if you’re crying for an armful of laundry. I wait shivering in my gown and slippers, then tap on the glass. You start. You let me in. The car smells the way farms do in summer. Those things clucking and scratching in the back.”
A story about youthful idealism, and love, told backwards. Published in Ambit. Purchase a copy here.