Poetry of Claire Hersom
We’d cuddle together, drift back to sleep, dreams of flap jacks
and Anadama Bread warm in the kitchen for breakfast.
Supper at the Farm
Nothing prepared me for my grandfather’s
peculiar brand of jurisprudence;
the kind he wielded outside
on the north corner of the farm
where his axe sang hallelujah over the
necks of chickens; one minute
their stuttering walk mimicking palsy,
the next in frantic flight, running headless.
Like an odd baptism after the fact,
dipped in the scalding water bucket of floating feathers,
it was last rites for a useless heart.
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