the other press November 20, 2002

Poetry/Fiction/Essays/etc.

 

 

 

Last moments

When she is nearing seven, she holds the bird
down. Her hand steadies the small thumping
cage of its body. With thumb, forefinger

and absolute concentration, she pushes

its brittle skull into position, between

two hard nails biting upwards from

a wooden block. Her father nods.

Its beak stretches open, on airless hinge,
closes and re-opens. Her fingers slick down
ruffled feathers, not soothing the bird,

but preparing. One toneless eye follows
the arc of her father’s swing—direct,
brutal, certain. The axe blade connects

to rend its last worried moments.

She is not alarmed when the body,
burst free by the blow, launches
onto the earth below. She watches it
racket dumbly over the dry grass,
marking its path with stray feathers
and crimson loops. It beats a wild
pace back to the coop and topples.

A sudden harsh surprise escapes

her lips. Her own laughter is the first
sound that bewilders her. She lifts
the bird’s severed head from its
wooden bed, cradles its weight in
her small palm and watches the beak

begin to harden around an unheard plea.

Rain Bone

 

 

 

 

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