When He Said Not To Write About What Happened, I Told Him
By Ari Eastman
it was not so much a poem as it was
a war cry,
an unloading of the darkest parts
of me, of him, of us.
he says, “remember the good times,”
as if the chicken could ever
think of the farmer,
of how gentle his hands were,
just days before
the butchering.