Timothy Liu

The chickens eat the ticks
in our neighbour’s yard.

We eat their eggs,

breasts, thighs, white
or dark meat all batter

fried. The goats eat

the poison ivy spreading
down the path that leads

to the boat ramp beside

a finger lake. We drink
their milk, eat their cheese,

make stew out of tough

meat. Do not call this
fair trade. My cock shrinks

at the thought, choking

on guzzled greenhouse
gasses. It’s 2022. We

have less than ten years

to make this right.
2222 seems impossible

to imagine. I should be

dead by 2052, 2062,
maybe a lot sooner if I

don’t change my ways.

Can somebody help me?
I want to stop eating

chicken, goat, tuna—

the Lebanese pound
trading at 27,000

to the dollar on the black

market—white and blue
collar workers cutting

down its famed cedars

for fuel—forests the size
of the Crusades to be

levelled in just three or

four years. Mommy,
Daddy, does stagflation

count? Birthday party

hats on sale at Walmart
while supply chains last—

gas at an all-time high.