Practicing for Thanksgiving or

The Bird in the Oven at Dawn 

whatever dreams I dreamed last night

replay as stills, my body waiting for red-lit 4

to flip to 5, awareness to shift from black to light

I spark the gas, its whoosh (& whoosh

& whoosh) repeats from left to right, I slit

the chicken’s market bag, upend the bird to wash

that blurred dream I dreamed last night

won't clear – straight back, forced march

futile measures, an ever strengthening lethal fight

20 minutes of roast, I rotate my bird 

from breast to back, expose the feathered stubs 

on wings & headless neck, inhale what can’t be heard

my chicken’s last cry, my feats

each night in other worlds, helpless quests

I try but never win, the hand-to-hand defeats

golding breast, skin on a drumstick 

torn from turning, where are those dreams

of spreading my arms, rising from grass & rock

to purest sky, swoop & dive, dove

or eagle, breeze or endless wheeling gyre, 

when will I soar beyond the boot, the glove 

& now the hour's run, my plump bird’s

brown, the oven snuffed, day risen, pole beans

rinsed & ready to snap, maledictions stayed with words

when will I soar