At the birthday party, some grownup brought out
the blindfold. Chlora figured they were going to
play some genteel game, like pin the tail on the donkey.
She could get into that, poking an ass with thumbtacks.
Instead, a heavy piñata was slung over a tree limb.
With a relieved cheer, the kids lined up from
small to tall to dismember a chicken.

The little kids ruffled its feathers, knocking his
left wing or his right wing, but it would
be up to Chlora to bushwhack him.
Finally it was her turn to swing.
They might not let girls play Little League
but she'd show ‘em how to hit, even with a
wussy little buster bat. The piñata hung
there like Judas, stiff and twisted.
She got three tries, just like Peter, to make that cock crow.
Someone put the flimsy handkerchief over her eyes and
turned her around three times. She was dizzy but not in denial.
She knew with one well-placed death blow, she could knock
the chicken-shit out of that rooster.

The piñata safety commission wasn't paying attention,
so Chlora scrunched up her nose, squinted her eyes, and took aim
at the rooster's weak spot. She wasn't sure if it was an enemy
or not, but just in case she bellowed out a war hoop:
"Remember the Alamo!!!" and bashed that chicken so hard
his feet flew out from under him, spraying a rain of goodies.

Chlora was the hit of the party, but she had no time
to revel in her hero status. She dove into the swarm
of kids, candy and toys,
scratching, kicking, shoving, and when necessary,
stomping on fingers. She avoided
those 30 pieces of silver, and went for the gold.
She was grabbing her share, but there wasn't much to be had.

The innards of that rooster were just lightweight, cheap stuff,
and all the kids were howling. They were all scarred
by the scramble for the manna.
The birthday boy got a bloody nose and a girl's party dress was torn.
Chlora lost a shoe and stumped her toe. Her loose tooth
was dangling and her hair stuck out like straw.
The scene was worse than the hustle for helicoptered food rations
you see on TV. Someone had the good sense to break this
cycle of violence, and declared that the rooster ruckus was over.
They all politely picked up and went home to their Sugar Daddies.

Life was not fair. Chlora's loot bag was almost empty.
She was the one who’d wrestled for the blessing.
She had been patient, hadn't cut in line, and had
followed all the rules. Well, except one rule.
She had peeked through the blindfold. But it wasn't all
her fault since it was thin, and it had that picture of the
transparent Jesus on it, pointing up. Chlora was good
at guilt and now she felt like Peter did in the Garden
of Gethsemene when he wanted to ring that rooster's neck.
Later he regretted hitting the snooze button three times.
But Peter got forgiven and was turned into a rock.
Not a bad outcome if you liked rocks as much as Chlora did.

Chlora felt bad but knew it never helped to stone yourself.
So she limped over to the edge of the yard and plopped down
beside the abandoned piñata. He’d had a worse time
than she did at this party. He looked forlorn and
depleted, so she gave him a plastic harmonica and told
him he looked like a famous rock star. The little gift and
the flattery fell flat. Next she plucked candy out of his
rumpled feathers and gorged herself. She quipped,
"Sticks and stones may break my bones
but words will never hurt me."
The rooster gave her a blank stare. Finally
Chlora spilled her guts and apologized. She had killed
the messenger. Instead of feeding sheep three times
like Jesus told Peter, she had fed herself. Under the tree
she found the rooster's broken off feet. They
were full of chocolate kisses, enough to share.
If nothing else, Chlora was good with a glue gun
and she would repair the damage.
Even fallen creatures
deserved to get their feet back.