A glossary of chickens

My daughter, 15, brings a copy of this week's New Yorker into the car for the school run. I'm slightly surprised, but say nothing.  She doesn't immediately pull out the iPod, but instead she says "I'm going to read you something."  She proceeds to read me this poem as we hurtle down Laurel Canyon towards the school bus:

A Glossary of Chickens

There should be a word for the way
they look with just one eye, neck bent,
for beetle or worm or strewn grain.
“Gleaning,” maybe, between “gizzard”
and “grit.” And for the way they run
toward someone they trust, their skirts
hiked, their plump bodies wobbling:
“bobbling,” let’s call it, inserted
after “blowout” and before “bloom.”
There should be terms, too, for things
they do not do—like urinate or chew—
but perhaps there already are.
I’d want a word for the way they drink,
head thrown back, throat wriggling,
like an old woman swallowing
a pill; a word beginning with “S,”
coming after “sex feather” and before “shank.”
And one for the sweetness of hens
but not roosters. We think
that by naming we can understand,
as if the tongue were more than muscle.

by Gary Whitehead

(Read more: http://www.newyorker.com/fiction/poetry/2010/05/24/100524po_poem_whitehead#ixzz0oZoWGKaY)

 This is Elvis, our erstwhile chicken

"Now, what do you think that poem is about?" she asks.

"Um" I say. "Could you read it again?"

She does.  She puts down the magazine and continues
"Miss P [her English tutor] asked me the same question and it took me a while to figure out.  Do you give up?"

I'm not at my sharpest at 7:24am.  I think I have a blank (blank) expression on my face.

"It's about POETRY!" she said, triumphantly.

This is why I love P.  She has managed to get my Twilight-lovin', LCD Soundsytem-listenin', Gossip Girl-watchin', smart-talkin', book-hatin', grumpy and delightful 15-year-old to read the New Yorker.  The brilliant Miss P's blog is here.

And wow, what a poem, eh?