two poems
by Brandon Diehl
VALENTINE’S DAY
“Chickens,” I said.
You looked at me from the passenger seat. “Chickens?”
“Chickens,” I said. “We just passed some chickens.”
“I didn’t see,” you said. “Wait, are you turning around?
Please don’t. We’re already running late. You’re not
seriously turning around to go say hi to the chickens?”
I finished doing my K-turn and said,
“It’ll just take a minute,” then I pulled over
next to the fenced-in area where the chickens were.
I turned off the car, got out, and crouched
next to the fence. The chickens were pacing around,
pecking at things. I put my hands under my armpits
and flapped my arms. I went, “Bock-bock-bock!”
One of the chickens went, “Bock!”
And another one went, “Bock-bock!”
You glared at me through the window.
I motioned for you to come over. You got out of the car
but didn’t come. “Well,” you said, “they are pretty cute.”
“They’re awesome,” I said. “I like how
they bob their heads when they walk
because it makes me think that they have earbuds in
and they’re listening to some really good hip-hop.”
You surveyed the chickens. The one closest to the fence
walked in a circle, paused, thrashed its head
like it was having a seizure, then started walking again.
You said, “That one’s listening to Limp Bizkit.”
I started to say something else but you balled up
your fists and said, “Can we please go?”
“We can,” I said. “But I was trying to ask
a question. How do you know
I wasn’t trying to say something important?”
You clicked your tongue and said,
“What was your question?”
I pointed to a doghouse-like structure within
the fenced-in area. I said, “Do you think
the chickens lay eggs in there?”
You rubbed your forehead. “Yes, Brandon. I think
that the chickens probably lie eggs in there.
Now say goodbye to them and let’s go.”
You got back into the car and closed the door.
I thought, “Say goodbye to the chickens? I’m not stupid.
Everybody knows chickens don’t know English.”
Then I said, “Bok-bok-bok!” and got back to the driver’s seat.
“Let’s go,” you said.
I buckled my seatbelt, then adjusted it.
I adjusted my rearview mirror,
then adjusted my seatbelt again.
You slapped your palms against your seat.
“Are you done?” you said.
You pointed at the dashboard clock.
“I feel like you think I’m stupid,” I said. “I’m not stupid.”
“Okay,” you said. “Anything else on your mind?”
“Well,” I said, “I was just wondering, like,
if a chicken were driving this car instead of me,
and we were the ones behind a fence, would
the chicken want to pull over and hang out with us?”
You rolled your eyes. “One of life’s greatest mysteries.”
This wasn’t really something I was wondering.
This was an unrealistic scenario.
(Chickens can’t drive because
chickens don’t have driver’s licenses.)
What I was really wondering was why my brain
felt so light and feathery. It felt like chunks of it
had been pecked out — or like chunks of it had grown
little white wings and flown out through my ears,
going “Bok-bok-bok!” It felt almost like my entire brain
was gone. Or like my entire head was gone. But I’d be okay.
I’d read an article once about a chicken that lived
for 18 months after decapitation. His name was Mike.
I adjusted my seatbelt one last time, then started the car,
trying to remember where we were going.
MISCHIEF NIGHT
I lived with my parents for a few months
before I grew the balls to pick up the rest
of my things from the house. You’d texted me
to let me know that you packed it all up
and left it in the garage before you left
for your parents’ Halloween party.
We wouldn’t have to see each other.
Now I was surrounded by boxes on the floor
of a guest room that used to be my childhood bedroom.
The band posters were gone, replaced
with picture-framed seashells. The corner
of the room where I used to keep my guitar
had a big starfish table. The bedspread
was beach-themed. Everything was beach-themed.
I dug through the boxes, half-watching
Jason X on the TV, trying to be festive.
My mom opened the door and said,
“Do you want help going through all this stuff?”
I said, “I think I’m okay.”
She said, “Okay. Are you holding up okay?”
I nodded. “Yeah, I think I’m okay.”
Then she asked me,
“What in God’s name are you watching?”
I looked at the movie on the TV.
It showed Jason getting distracted
by a holographic simulation of Camp Crystal Lake,
which was created using some kind
of futuristic technology that wasn’t really explained.
Jason walked around the simulation, looking depressed.
Like he knew something was fucked up.
Like he was thinking, “This doesn’t feel like home.”
My mom said, “This is so silly.”
I folded a shirt and tossed it onto a pile of other shirts,
then looked at the TV again. There were 2 camper girls.
Jason took a sleeping bag with one of the camper girls
inside of it, then used it/her as a weapon to strike
the other camper girl who was also in a sleeping bag.
My mom said, “This is so goofy.”
My voice got caught in my throat
as I tried to agree. I realized I was weeping.
Not because the movie was so bad,
but because you weren’t there to witness it.
You would have loved seeing
a person smack a person with a person.
My mom said, “Oh, honey. It’s okay. It’ll be okay.”
She hugged me tight. I couldn’t remember
the last time someone had hugged me like that.
I said, “I know. I know I’ll be okay.”
This is the final poem I’ll ever write about you.
And by “final,” I mean the kind of “final”
that gets used in movie titles —
like Jason Goes to Hell: The Final Friday.
The kind of “final” ultimately rendered meaningless
when someone says, “Fuck it,” digs some ideas
out of a recycling bin, and Frankensteins together
a sequel or a reboot or a sequel-reboot hybrid,
typically with a questionable spin
(like an incomprehensible sci-fi plotline
involving one or more holographic simulations),
and everyone knows the whole thing will be awful,
but they’ll probably sit through it anyway.
Photo of Brandon Diehl
BIO: Brandon Diehl lives in New Jersey with his cat. You can find him at www.brandondiehl.net, which he never updates.