Why My Mother Needed the Garage Sale Rooster

Because of rust, she stopped.

Because of its maimed rebar feet,
marred beak, butter-yellow head
topped with a crimson cock.

Because of its ruddy wattles dangling
over a flash-green body. She remembered
when she was eight. Remembered
Grandmother’s blameless hands
feeding the chickens, her every day task.

Because Grandmother had grabbed a rooster,
a bloodstained axe in her hand and thrown
his struggling body on a wood block.
And chopped. Bloody, feathered-black,
his body flailed on without a head
sight spurting from his veins.
The noonday sky fired red-sharp streaks.

Because Grandmother stood close
as water simmered in a big cast iron pot,
Mother learned to pluck blazed feathers,
to drop the finally quiet body
into the pot.

Because the rooster fell.
For supper. For her.
She stopped.
Because she could not resist.