I wrote this poem years ago. It’s about an incident when I was 8 or 9. I knew nothing of biology at the time. My mother was raised on a farm, but as the only girl among many brothers, she had little experience in killing chickens but knew how to prepare them for a meal. We kids were amazed and baffled by what came next. Published in Coffee Press Journal January 2006, copyright to J. Donald Coonrod.

Mother’s face was quizzical as she
squared off with the chicken
for Sunday dinner.

Her arms were strong
from mothers’ work,
but she had no good tool,
just an axe head—the handle lost
in last summer games.

Making do, she struck the outstreatched
neck, ripping through pin feathers
and pale yellow skin—the beady
reptilian eyes circled wildly,
then flickered and closed.

The head dropped softly to earth, but
the astonishing body, not yet spent,
fled through the yard, a small red
fountain in the neck pumping blood
until the body collapsed.

Mother gathered it up quickly, but said
nothing. We knew it was a miracle.