A Killing

The Yolks go in a little Bowl

The Yolks go in a little Bowl

Here: The Poetry Podcast: Philip Levine reads Ellen Bass. (by The New Yorker on Soundcloud)

Poetry Podcast, The New Yorker: Philip Levine

I remember the chicken slaughter too.  I was fascinated by the little bowl of yolks of removed, unformed, unshelled eggs. The golden treasure. Headless chickens running around is a tired trope, the reality a different thing altogether. At least those chickens had a life commensurate with one which -as a human- one would consider happy. (Mmm, maybe not…) I have warm fuzzy-wuzzy memories of collecting eggs, true, but I also remember the feathers and the smell, the “mean” rooster, the empty coop after the constrictor got in. Memories of slaughter day, of course. Tombola, the rooster I won at the school fair for five cents, did not escape it either.

Baba luislangetjie (CC-BY-SA 2.0; Hannes Steyn)

Every time I think about the farm, a picture of a small acacia-flower-like-fluff-ball of a chick forces itself into my mind’s eye. That’s the chick whose little head I accidentally squished in the heavy hinge of the closing farm store door; there between the heavy bags of cornmeal it blinked at me with sad-bloodied eyes as I sank to the red clay floor in dismay. Cheep=cheep, it said, blinked away its ruby tears, and started pecking at something unseen.

Ruby Eyes of Regret

Those Ruby Eyes of Regret


About michelledevilliersart

Dribbler, scribbler, dabbler, doodler, dreamer...
This entry was posted in #amlistening, Illustration, poetry and tagged , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

One Response to A Killing

  1. Link Police says:

    I liked the bladders — Balloons! Who knew?
    And the crops — such handy lunch bags for later.

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