The Summer We Raised Chickens

The summer we raised chickens
is fading from my mind a little--

The way the feathers smell
when water,
boiled.
is poured over
the stiff white bristles.

The way twine feels
tied tight around legs that tried
to carry the body away
from the inevitable.

The track of blood
from the stump
into the long grasses
and back to the barn
and the steam.

My job
was to pluck them.
My job
was to hold them down.

My job was to remember the names
my sister gave them,
like Brownie and Skye,
and live to tell the story.