So, I found a few poems I wrote about seven years ago. One of them, a little morbid, but it was for a project in poetry….She Talks to Chickens…..was requested for a poetry reading a few times and has been stretched and cut a few times over.  So I decided upon finding it I would share it. Country folk who grow and eat the food they raise get it. People who primarily eat food bought from stores and have never set foot on a farm may find it a little to ‘real’ for their taste. If you are sensitive, or work for PETA, don’t read any further.

 She talks to chickens,

Here chick- chick-chick—

Slipping on wet stones,

Her yellow plastic coat hangs stiff like an Easter basket.

Dappled legs bare between the coat and her husband’s rubber boots.

Strolling in a yard that smells of wet chicken feathers, dirt and rotten eggs.

Hunger waiting impatiently in her kitchen.

Little fingers peel hot potatoes with dull knives.

 

She spies the bird with two and a half wings,

Incessantly scratching at weed roots.

Three toed pfft -pfft -pfft…unearthing and pecking,

No longer a layer– It’s time.

 

Her voice calm against the grey day.

Here chick –chick- chick—

 

Feed thrown from her left hand,

Here chick- chick- 

 

Right hand holds the axe.

Here chick–

Left hand trades feed for two dancing feet in one swinging movement,

Head to stump…Swish and…Thump! 

Feet still scratching.

Three wings hang quiet against a yellow plastic coat.

Black rubber boots Squeak – Schritch – Squeak – Schritch on a stone path,

Small puffs of steam open from warm red drops hitting cold wet rocks.

 

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