What are Chickens For?

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