Poetry

Chickens

Carol Prejean Zippert

She raised chickens.
She pampered the setting hens
that could be vicious when
guarding their nest.
And even when the chicks
were hatched, those mother hens
were ever vigilant over their brood
and my mother was ever vigilant
over her hens.

She ordered catalog chicks
when her Rhode Island Reds and big
White Rocks didn’t reproduce fast
enough.
The noisy chicks arrived in boxes
of 100.

She collected newspapers for the
daily ritual of laying fresh
covering on the wire-mesh floors
of the little chicks’ cages.
She kept them warm and dry.
She removed the “pip” –
a mouth malady of chicks that
stopped their eating.
She was their nurse.

She raised chickens
to feed her large family.
So when the chicks had grown
to freezer size she blocked them
in the chicken yard and one by one
she wrung their necks
laying each on its back on a cross
she carved in the dust.
She claimed this brought the chickens
a peaceful death and allowed their
spirits to remain with the earth.

She raised chickens
and kept their yard raked clean,
their water dishes fresh and filled.
And she spoke gently with them
as she sprinkled their feed.

My mother raised chickens.
She nurtured them as her family.
My mother raised chickens to
help nurture her family.