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donall-dempseyPoems
MIST CREEPING SLOWLY The morning found only blood & feathers. The fox leaving only Death & its presence & the gossip of the frightened chickens. My uncle swearing ‘til the sky was blue (early morning clouds that the sun shone through) . An embarrassed **** like a mad alarm clock crying like a cartoon “cock-a-doodle-do! ” My uncle dispatching him with a quick kick. “Oh yeah, and where the hell were you? ” I take in the scene of the massacre & whisper: “I sure wouldn’t like to be    a chicken! ” *    *      * All that next week my uncle stalked the chicken coup waiting for the fox who was clever enough not to turn up until the eight day driven by his hunger & his nature she stared into my uncle’s cold metallic sight & the evil acrid smell of a cartridge caught in flight as both it & the fox(shot through the head)   fell dead at my uncle’s muddied boot. My gentle uncle delirious with Death the frosted air stained with his breath. His voice almost transformed into an animalistic hoot: “Hey boy, betcha didn’t know I could shoot! ” The good side of the fox’s face seemed to still laugh at the very idea of Death. I whimpered: “I sure wouldn’t like to be    a fox! ” The countryside brutal & Biblical demanding a life for a life Yet all I could see was Death...Death. Priest-like... I knelt & whispered a quick act of contrition to the fox’s carcase. My uncle probably thought I was barmy. That night in celebration my uncle wrung a chicken’s neck (the chicken’s name was Patricia)   & I declined the clean white breast still haunted by the chicken & the fox’s death.
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Aug 11, 2018
Aug 11, 2018 at 7:14 PM UTC
MIST CREEPING SLOWLY
MIST CREEPING SLOWLY The morning found only blood & feathers. The fox leaving only Death & its presence & the gossip of the frightened chickens. My uncle swearing ‘til the sky was blue (early morning clouds that the sun shone through) . An embarrassed **** like a mad alarm clock crying like a cartoon “cock-a-doodle-do! ” My uncle dispatching him with a quick kick. “Oh yeah, and where the hell were you? ” I take in the scene of the massacre & whisper: “I sure wouldn’t like to be    a chicken! ” *    *      * All that next week my uncle stalked the chicken coup waiting for the fox who was clever enough not to turn up until the eight day driven by his hunger & his nature she stared into my uncle’s cold metallic sight & the evil acrid smell of a cartridge caught in flight as both it & the fox(shot through the head)   fell dead at my uncle’s muddied boot. My gentle uncle delirious with Death the frosted air stained with his breath. His voice almost transformed into an animalistic hoot: “Hey boy, betcha didn’t know I could shoot! ” The good side of the fox’s face seemed to still laugh at the very idea of Death. I whimpered: “I sure wouldn’t like to be    a fox! ” The countryside brutal & Biblical demanding a life for a life Yet all I could see was Death...Death. Priest-like... I knelt & whispered a quick act of contrition to the fox’s carcase. My uncle probably thought I was barmy. That night in celebration my uncle wrung a chicken’s neck (the chicken’s name was Patricia)   & I declined the clean white breast still haunted by the chicken & the fox’s death.
donall-dempsey
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donall-dempsey
Aug 11, 2018
Aug 11, 2018 at 7:14 PM UTC
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