Photo of actual coffee mug in question, circa 1994.
Twenty years ago
I received a birthday gift
from a close college buddy-slash-sometime lover
(What on earth were we thinking?).
Back then, our past was already in the past
& twenty-four was already not young.
He gave me a coffee mug
covered in chickens—
yes, painted chickens—
three plump specimens posed around the outside,
& one that looks like an index finger
with an eye, a comb, a beak, & a wattle,
slapped onto the bottom.
How, I can’t fathom,
but my friend knew that those chickens
with their orange-red, expressionistic bodies
would be a boat-floater for me—
the one time I had slept with him
had been an epic shipwreck,
with a silent drive to the airport in its wake;
on the way, we choked down pancakes,
& I stifled sobs in my coffee,
averting my eyes
from the helpless horror in his.
I then flew off into the wild, wide sky,
bewildered, drowning.
Somehow, for years to come,
his southern gentlemanly charms
still served to allure:
he kept his promise to write
& took pains to catalogue for me
the details of his worldly escapades
& various, accompanying sexual conquests,
always making sure to emphasize
the ways in which they were hot for him,
so as to prove those trysts’ relative rightness.
Then, came the birthday gift—
the unexplainably gratifying
chicken cup.
Still burning hot
& feathered in their chili-pepper red,
royal purple & verdant green cloaks,
my static & impossibly happy
aphrodisiac chickens
blush like lovers on a Grecian urn;
clucking, urgent.
My southern gent,
now so long ago flown from this callous coop,
wooed another & had his own brood,
as, in due course, did I,
but the mug, no worse for wear, remains
a spectacular feature—
like a bright birthday piñata
(with its promise of sweet reward)—
of my sacred morning ritual.
These chickens,
still ecstatically surprised,
letting out unabashed, open-beaked caterwauls,
adorn my most aged & prized coffee mug;
a vessel, perfectly-sized,
it cups its contents so adoringly,
fiercely,
like an egg enveloping its cache of gold,
as I take privileged sips.
The big chicken on the left
might actually be a rooster,
& that one on the bottom,
a middle finger.
STEPHANIE L. HARPER
“Painted Chickens” was first published in the winter 2014 edition of Sixfold magazine. I was inspired to post it on the blog today by a dream I had the other night involving a brood of chickens who were all trying to ingratiate themselves to me with their eggs, all of which were severely malformed and/or proportionally impossible to have been laid by the given, proud clucker presenting it. One of the eggs gifted to me was shaped like a tiny, raw roast that fit in the palm of my hand. Trying not to snub this sweet avian’s generosity, I remarked, with all the casualness I could muster, “Oh, it looks like this one isn’t quite done yet,” and I gently set it back in the nest. From the slapped expression on my friend’s feathered little face, however, I’m pretty sure she knew the score… A viable analysis of this one as yet eludes me, so I’m definitely open to suggestions!
SLHARPERPOETRY 
Perhaps the dream is simply pointing out your obvious and glaring ovum-elitist traits. Or not. 🙂
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Perfectionism much?
Yeah, I think I catch your drift…
People who know me, though, ought to know I mean well. Guess I can’t say the same should be true for chickens. 😉
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Perfectionism? Nah, never. Ha! Well, I often receive accusing looks from my dogs. Or at least what I interpret as accusing looks. 🙂
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They KNOW…
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What a fun poem! And perky coffee cup …
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Thanks, Jazz! It was my favorite mug, and still as viable as ever at the time I’d written this (in 2014-ish). Sadly, the mug met its demise about 6 months ago. I was holding it by its handle and hand-washing it at the sink, and the handle just suddenly broke away in my hand. It turns out that, long unbeknownst to me, it had been disintegrating from the inside… Hmm, perhaps a sequel is in order?
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The cup, the eggs…
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Not sure which is more uncanny — the apparent parallel, or the extreme latency of its drawing… Though, the first life lesson in question took me 20 years to thresh out, so one could argue that I’ve actually sped up the process forty-fold!
Which is not bad for a no-longer-spring chicken!
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Disintegrating …ceramic? What kind of coffee did you put in that mug!? (Or maybe the chickens were pecking at it when no one was looking?)
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What came first the chicken or the egg? I love how you express yourself my dear.
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I LOVE how you’ve always suffered that expression… It’s always meant a lot to me that you’re out there, listening! ❤
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I love this piece! And in some Jungian circles, seeing that rooster can have sexual connotation (the cock, as it were) and/or speaking your mind (rooster crow). So, so good!!
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Thanks, Ericka! Haha! Yep, I’m a little slow sometimes… It took me 20 years to identify (and employ!) that rather loaded “f*ck you,” but the lesson eventually stuck.
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Over supper, I probed my used-to-be-potter (before my time) about how your cup handle could drop off … he says: If it was a handmade pottery mug, then the handle would have been added to the vessel by way of “marking Xs” on both pieces, dampening the interface areas, and merging the two prior to firing. If an air bubble got in the joint, it could possibly grow a bit over time, weakening the joint.
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I’m guessing that it was mass-produced. I found the photo in a Google Images search. It was really weird. The inside of the handle was all brown and decrepit, even though I’d never noticed any cracks in the surface, but I’d also been using it for about 23 years, so I figured that was just the lifespan of a well-loved ceramic mug! I think it’s hilarious (and awesome!) that it even occurred to you to wonder and then ask an authority about my chicken mug’s fate! 😊🐓
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I, too, have a poem (circa 2000) about a favorite cup … and, too, it’s no longer with me. Wish I had a photo of mine!
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Hmmm…I have a leather purse (with a broken zip), that acts as a very similar memento. Thank you for a great poem that told a story and stirred memories.
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Thanks for stopping by, Kim! Isn’t it amazing how much angst we can pour into a cup (or stuff into a purse!) and get unaccountably attached to?
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Yup! 🙂
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