Breast Meat

We do our best to stand out
as chickens. We cluck and we pluck and we pop
another egg. We paint it, try to make it
look new and exciting, but it leaks.

My sheets are stained with egg salad
singing a power ballad that stinks.
Powerball tickets saturate the ceiling.
All of them have lost the battle.

None of us will win because we’re too busy competing
in the latest match that boils down
to who can crack the most eggs,
who can sizzle the longest before we all break.

By Juliet Cook

Biography:

Juliet Cook is a grotesque glitter witch medusa hybrid brimming with black, grey, silver, purple, and dark red explosions. She is drawn to poetry, abstract visual art, and other forms of expression. Her poetry has appeared in a peculiar multitude of literary publications. You can find out more at www.JulietCook.weebly.com.