> jumping into life.

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He holds the knife behind his back,
holds the chicken gingerly by her beak.
He looks up at me
deep breath
looks down at the chicken.
Okay missy.

She's upside-down in an orange construction cone.
She was easy to catch, slow, sick.

He looks up at me,
looks down at the chicken.
Knife steady but still,
behind his back.

Wind chills my fingers
wrapped firm around her legs.
I can feel her heartbeat.
There is a scar on the bottom of one foot.

Okay missy.

Deep breath.


He looks up at me, shakes his head.

The knife handle is warm from his hand.
The light is failing, cold night coming on fast.

Deep breath.
The blood runs hot into the bucket.
I can feel my heart beating.

It was never easy for me, either. It's not supposed to be, I guess.

Oh. This is a great poem.

Oh, Kat, you had me right there with you.

I can pluck and gut, but I haven't yet wielded the knife; don't know whether I'll be able to.

I don't ever hope it's easy, but I do hope it gets a little easier, Dave.

Thanks, Dale! I like it. ;)

Kimberly, the deal was supposed to be that he did the initial knife-wielding and I did the rest, but it turns out that it works better if I do all the knife-wielding and he does the clean-up.

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