The Vegetarian
At the pet store, I look for a toy
that doesn’t resemble an animal
my dog can actually kill. I exclude
the chickens with their piercing squawks.
The package inserts mention instinct
and how sounds of pain can enhance it.
I land on a quiet sloth.
—
The nurse shows us videos of her fluffy yellow chickens.
We let out little yelps of adoration.
Just before she stops the video, she says,
these are my meat chickens.
Circle of life, right?
She goes inside to help her patient with his pillow.
—
In my village, they bathe a blue,
red-crested rooster with a garden hose.
He struts and spreads his wings
and has no patience for little things like me.
It is the night of the bootha-kola dance:
As the demi-gods possess the dancers,
they snort like bulls, and their chests
bounce to the beat of the drums—
they never stop moving.
My relatives don’t hesitate
to serve up the rooster for sacrifice.
I see his head
sitting upright
on a newspaper in my uncle’s palm.
I swear
he blinks twice
as he sees his headless body dance like the dancers who just beheaded him.
A trail of blood glows in the night.
The eyes close.
It feels like a long time.
—
In the ICU, when it’s really busy,
a nurse says she’s been running around
like a headless chicken.
I guffaw.
—
The rooster still runs
in one last, shocked attempt,
still flips like the dancers, their bare backs
slapping against the concrete patio.
—
Later that night,
after the drums ended their assault
we ate Mangalorean chicken curry.
—
In the store that screams
of raw hides and bull penises,
I pick a sloth that doesn’t make a sound.
My dog, happy to have received a gift, takes it outside
where he shakes it without knowing why—
he sits down
and nibbles on the soft, hairless hand.
