one time, mom was out in the back,
hunched over the concrete ledge of the yard.
i heard some horrible squawking and i rushed to her,
“ma! ma! are you okay!?”
and to my surprise, she looked up and gave a calm,
“yes?” as she snapped a live chicken’s neck in her hands.
“ma!!”
she resumed to cut a clean slit in its throat. i gagged.
she wiped a sweat off her brow and let it finish bleeding over a silver pan and sighed,
“you need something?”
the post-mortem chicken pulsed, throbbing slowly away as the red spilled forth.
i forget she’s a farmer’s daughter from a third-world country.
in death’s hour, i sat in a far away spot in the corner of the kitchen and put my knees to my chest while mom slammed down a guillotine knife through the unfortunate poultry. i winced at every smack, crunch, and slop of the poor raw chicken.
and that’s how i feel when i write poetry.