I’d like to have a chicken as a therapist, but only if the chicken has a PhD. But
only if the chicken is funny and fond of dental floss. (Maintaining oral hygiene is a hobby of
mine.) I want to know who chickens dream about. I want to know how it feels to floss a beak,
how it feels to point my face at something, lunge, and open. I imagine opening with my nose to
be the most empowering, something feminist theorists write about. I’d hold doors with my nose
for hours—of course eggs can rot inside of a chicken, provided the chicken is dead. Living
chickens boil eggs with their own feathered insulation—I’d hold the door for you with my nose.
You’d talk to me about being capable enough to open a door for yourself, thank you, and I’d
apologize to you (nose pressed to door), looking all ashamed, but still proud and sniffing