Author: Theo Itchon


  • Dead Chicken

    I murmur an apology to the skull in my hand, no lighter than a handful of pesos.The curve of its beak winds into a low note,a soulful whistle that carries me to a graveyard where I writhe under the soil. Schoolboys place me on the end of a twig,confines me in a box with a spider.I am no…