My mother wrung the necks of chickens
in the back yard, and we
brought boiling water
for their dismembered bodies.
The shaft feathers so deep,
they had to be plucked one by one.
A sifting down on undersides
to save for feather pillows.
The yellow feet are useless claws,
scaley handled stems
on white orchids, disrobed to pink
and tender veining.
The chestnut tree dropped
its ripened Buckeyes,
glazed over brown,
in the passing season.
Death, not much blood,
a delicate spray of red.
A flour sack, a cast iron pan,
Speckled brown bits.
Rolling lard browned the roux;
My mother stirred cream gravy.
We set the table and spread lace
under the centerpiece.
We say the meal-time prayer.
Not much thought
to the simple grace.
We pass the relish tray.
Radish bulbs and onion stalks;
the spirits of chickens alive
inside the hands
that have taken their heads.
“Spirits of Chickens” was printed in Esther, No. 1 of Inwood Indiana. Pick up the paperback from Prolific Press; the stories and poems published online are free to read here.
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