XIV. Ode to Chicken Wings.

I sat with sauce upon my face,

A plate of wings, a frenzied pace.

Sweet chili, hot, and honey-glazed,

My hunger wild, my morals dazed.

Twenty-four wings. I tore through ten.

Then paused to count. Then paused again.

But mid-devour, a thought took root:

Whose limbs were these I chose to loot?

Two wings per bird (that much is true),

So twelve fine chickens flew... then flew.

Or would have flown, had they the chance,

But met instead my greasy dance.

And I, unknowing, lips all slick,

Had culled a flock with every lick.

But wait. There's more.

The math gets grim.

Each store stocks birds up to the brim.

Rotisserie ranks in rows divine,

Just spinning, sweating, brined in brine.

One store. Two stores. Maybe three.

Each one with fowls in heated spree.

If twelve gave wings to feed just me,

How vast must poultry numbers be?

But wait. Who's counting? Who keeps track?

Are chickens real, or just a snack?

A simulation? Feathered code?

Poultry spawned in overload?

Did I eat time?

Did I eat space?

Did I just dine on chicken grace?

And then — a flicker. Sauce turned mist.

A phantom hen began to twist.

She rose above the celery tray,

A poultry ghost in disarray.

"Twelve birds," she clucked. "You didn't duck.

They had names, and nests, and dreams, and luck.

They sang at dawn, they knew the skies.

Their wings, now lies. Deep-fried goodbyes."

I dropped my eighth. Or was it ten?

Regret, perhaps. But not repent.

For hunger's real, and sauce runs deep.

And moral panic doesn't keep.

I nodded slow. I chewed. I knew—

This wouldn't be my last wing coup.

The waiter came. He said, "All good?"

I asked, "More wings?" He said, "I would."

I was inspired.

Didn’t balk.

For guilt is light,

and meat is dark.

And I was only at the start.

For what it’s worth,

-Charlene Iris

One thought at a time.

One truth at a time. 

Because some epiphanies stay with you.