Abraham was a rooster. He'd been made to fight. He was not a fighter.
He ended up in a basement with a "No one touch the killer!"
We brought him to the sanctuary. He loved peanut butter and jelly.
He loved laps and Linda's pillow. He was not a fighter. He wanted
to be held by toddlers, grandpas, phi beta kappas, grievers and
socialists and pop stars. He wanted you to gentle his comb
between your forefinger and thumb. It was a smooth, warm piece of a
smooth, warm boy, and it blushed with bliss. It was tender and vulnerable
like someone who had been as unloved as a chicken
and then as loved as a chicken could be loved.
He grew old and full of love and died, rubbing his head back
and forth, back and forth against Linda's arm. We planted
coxcomb, a wound and a heart and a growing glow.