one from the spit where I watched them
spinning in the window, while I waited for you
to go to the bathroom. A family with four young children
assessed the chickens,
skin throbbing over the burnt organs.
I thought the father was with his mistress
though I couldn’t say why, nor could I decipher
the Greek volleying around
the chickens. The chickens
on my mind all the way to the coast.
Potos is crowded. On the beachwalk
there are many bodies.
There are no jobs. There is no money.
There are only beaches.
We walk along the smutty shops
lining the two streets of Potos.
The sun blares down.
I almost unbury it
on a hot day
in front of everyone.
I’d be the chicken on the spit.
I’d be long dead and burned.
I’d be daylight.
One cannot escape one’s sins
only survive them.
We arrive late to the table.
I don’t know what Harry or Carolyn were thinking,
where they were before,
which of them ordered the chicken.
The chicken, as in love, is devoured.