HOT CHICKEN
In the kitchen,
Hope in her red and white
Checkered housedress,
Worn from washing and work,
Cleaned a chicken whose
Neck she’d snapped out back.
Warm and sticky with blood,
It quivered as she pulled
Feathers out by the handful.
Her belly strained out
Against her dress.
It too jumped and quivered.
Through the holes waved a
Faded ‘u’ and half of an ‘s’
On her Riley, sugar sack drawers.
Pappy stalked in.
His boots crusted with mud,
Left brown tracks on
The hardwood floor.
With a dirty hand,
He slapped her rump,
Then memorized her
Bottom to belly.
“Hey Mama,” he whispered,
Kissing her neck and a
Damp, golden ringlet plastered against it.
His breath smelled of white lightning.
Hope closed her eyes against
His hands and whiskey kisses,
And dreamed of the city,
Bright lights and
Hot chicken.
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Hope closed her eyes against
His hands and whiskey kisses,
And dreamed of the city,
Bright lights and
Hot chicken
The last few lines says it all, Lisa. Awesome write!
Blessings,
~Linda
Thanks, ~D.
Be always safe,
Karen