The Beheading

Deborrah Corr

My mother, 
the machinery of my life, 
pinioned a hen under her arm. 
Her slap hand grasped the handle 
of an ax. The stump waited. 
She plunked the bird onto its surface.

The chicken screeched. 
Bladed feet sawed the air, 
helpless to reach the enemy, 
who held the flailing body 
with one hand and raised the other. 

The blade cut open 
a sudden, frozen silence. 
Sky, grass, girl, woman, 
all stopped, 

while the universal clock ticked one click. 

Then the beheaded 
raised its body, careened 
in lunatic circles. 
Its neck a fountain 
of scarlet paint,
spraying dust, 
spraying apron, 
spraying the shoes 
of the woman watching, 
waiting for the fall. 

I squealed. I laughed 
at the dance 
of the headless bird. 
Forgive me. 

And forgive again 
when years later, 
memory wiped clean 
of gore, I thought it 
entertainment 
to bring my daughter 
to watch her uncle 
sever a head. 

Unfarmed child, 
her face rolled up in horror.

Deborrah Corr is the author of the chapbook Naked Rib (Finishing Line Press). A former kindergarten teacher, she decided, upon retirement, to dedicate her time to the art and craft of poetry. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in several journals and anthologies, including Chicago Quarterly Review, Booth, Verse Daily, The McNeese Review, Catamaran and many others. Deborrah lives in Seattle where she is inspired by gardening and morning walks with her husband.