The Bird was Going to Die
There was a thin warning of
blood from its beaky nostril
and it couldn't stand, so mum
went inside for the carving
knife. I stayed with the bird, its
eye looking at me as a secret
hostage would do, wanting to
say it all with one look. Was
that the misery we were
putting it out of? I heard
mum sharpen the knife, streaking
the metal against grains of
stone and when she returned she
held the bird's body light
against the lawn, wiped the blade
through its throat. I looked at the
backs of her hands, shining and
starred like the Chinese Checker
board, the hands that rubbed eczema
cream on my thighs, were good at
knucklebones, the fast snatch and
scoop, that ran the knitting machine
across, catching the dots to catch
the hooks to make rows of snowflakes.
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