I wanted it all. Clean and easy,

I wanted a boneless skinless tender-

a wonder of a breaded thing, I wanted

what my friends had. Instead I had chicken

thighs. Greasy, too much skin, meat -still on the bone,

and still- it was what we had. It tasted a little too much

like itself, and it was supper. Touching the bone

made it real. I, too, have bones.

My kin knew the most humane way to kill

a chicken by the time they were 10-

Which is to snap its head off. I, too, know this,

but only through DNA.My great grandmother had a talent

for the end, which sounded wildly cruel

but now that I know, what I know about life-

her savagery is an accurate kindness.

It took skill, devotion, and careful observation

to snuff out life properly. She knew

what death looked like and how to dance

around the feathers. I look in the pan

at the crispy skin, golden brown, delicious-

strung up with rosemary for remembrance

and cured with salt and a hint of garlic. I admire

the strong legs that carried the bird

around for all its wandering curiosities

while I follow mine, wondering too,

about my gift for endings.

Angelina Aldrich is a creativity enthusiast living in Nashville, TN. She’s spent most of her life in Florida, party prepping for hurricanes, avoiding sharks and drinking out of hoses. She's an executive Chef, a connoisseur of pocket snacks and a budding fiddle player. Her work has been published in the 2025 Gather Anthology, and “Upon Learning that” Anthology by Alex Dawson. You can find her work online @themessylittleswamppoet.