Grandma chased chickens,

hatchet in hand,

dragged one squawking

to the chopping block —

Grandma, who never

raised her voice in anger,

who made me soft warm

peanut butter cookies,

who played Christmas carols

and Chopin on her piano,

who read me to sleep with

The Little Engine That Could

and Three Billy Goats Gruff

whenever I spent the night.

 

I never watched her face

when she killed a chicken,

saw only her hand around its neck,

saw the two rusty nails

on a red-stained wooden block.

Even then I knew enough to save

her face for memories of cookies

and Christmas carols, Chopin

and favorite stories, for the soft bed

where she bathed me with smiles

as her soothing voice

sent me sweetly toward dreams

that had no chickens.

 

This poem appeared previously in Horizons, Bellowing Ark, Let the Poems Begin, and A Millennial Sampler of South Carolina Poetry (2005).
Used here with the author's permission.