Mary Catherine is a Defeathered Chicken

She’s the cool squish-bird in plastic
wrap. Today she wears her own hair,
a mush brown

helmet wig. But there is something pure
about her, something as demure-soft

as her shoes. I imagine
her feet wrapped in that leather, tender buffed sheep—

bare feet—
how the heel and ball roll, lay, get

up again—leisurely, as if they were made
for a chaise,

I imagine her feet so soft in my hands,
I could bone squeeze them crushed.