Catalogue of My Dead

The grandfather who taught me
how to pluck the feathers off fowl
and slit its neck in one swift motion
to shorten the agony of death.

The grandmother who took 
two hanks of my hair in her hand 
and plaited them tight as whips
to guide a horse.

The father who hardly 
smiled but sang 
a lullaby ending with 
the word sweetheart. 

The mother who sewed 
the ugliest name on my towels
and clothes, to trick the gods
into leaving me alone.

Leave a Reply

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.