i touch my finger to my lips,
the cue for Nonnie and me to bow our heads, close our eyes, and hush,
our secret to polished silver and earl grey.
Bless our family, and the needy,
and all the other sheep i count
in grandfather clock rhythm.
Milanos water my mouth from their poise-in crepe cups as
my eyelashes, in squint-scope, filter
antique sunshine flooding the window, pouring all over the tea set,
dusting Nonnie's prayer
to flush the face powder
on her cheeks, once she opens her eyes and smiles,
into a blush.

Just past dawn
She toddles out in
A flour-sack apron,
A hatchet in her
Pocket.

Beside the upright
Log, its bark aging,
Leans a potato sack
With one white
Cackling hen inside.

The woman is all
Business, this job
Nothing new,
Dinner comes soon.

The log is capped
With two rusty nails
About 2 inches apart.

The hen continues
Her song, ignorant
Of her fate.

The woman grabs
The hen in her left
Hand, the hachet
In her pocket.

With deft attention,
The woman places
The hen’s neck between
The nails.

The cackling becomes
A maniacal squawk,
But no one is there
To grieve.

One quick stroke
Is all it takes, and
The hen’s head is
On the ground.

The stump is full
Of blood, and the
Proverbial body
Is running around,
Minus the squawk.

The woman grabs
The hen and shoves
Her back into the
Potato sack, minus
Its head.

The task is done,
Five minutes max.

Time to take her
To the kitchen for
The plucking of
Feathers and the
Saving of edible
Internal organs.

The woman and her
Hen are ready for
The family’s Sunday
Dinner, only hours
Away.

The hen’s head
Rests outside, its
Comb, beak and
Wattle the worse
For wear.

The woman sings,
Rehearsing:
Komm, Herr Jesu,
Sei unser Gast….


© Lewis Bosworth, 2016

you told me once
that you were
seeing everything
from the top of a
mountain
and i wonder
if the cerulean air from
up there
fills your lungs
like a new day
and if the birds
live inside your dreams
like a museum
where their laughter
preserves the best
parts of you

the interior
of your face
illuminated by
your yellow
laughter
and the wrinkles
on your skin
that evolve like
the best parts of
the south that run through
you
me: like slipping from
the past into now
discovering you
like my own best kept
secret
like: stitching time into a quilt
you: like the melody of your life
that breathes like first love
under the
***** of
my seeking
heart

a gift from god
that's what my mom
tells me that my name means
handcrafted like
blown glass vases from
god's kaleidoscopic hands
and dropped into the earth
like undigested chicken into the frying pan by
nonnie's crisco-battered
fingers
as time goes on i realize that
my neatly folded corners
have crinkles in them
from all the seconds that i have wasted and cannot get back
from all the good in people that i looked for
that wasn't there
i haven't experienced a
great tragedy but yet
the words still roll from my body
like thunder
like god in the sky clapping
down to me
saying you go girl
saying you've made it, azaria
you've finally arrived
my mom never told
me that my
father wouldn't love me
like the way the first
breath feels when you
come up for air after
being underwater
like his love wouldn't
be an exclamation point
to finish the part of
existence where i
wasn't present
a ******* to gravity
for depriving him
of my high-voltage skin
and heroic laughter
she didn't tell me that
i would go to college
and fall in love with a
girl who
has a collection of 23 hats
and speaks of jamaica
like a past life
she didn't tell me
that my heart would burn like
hitting the corner of your
hip on a table
like the sting of your knees
on raw carpet
and holding on to things
that weren't meant for you
she never told me that
the ending was the hardest part
that time is stagnant like an open wound
when you peer into the night
waiting for god
to confirm your existence
like splitting open the
white sky
a 2 am revelation
unfolding like
atoning  
with your last breath
waiting for god to say
you go girl
you've made it, azaria
you've finally arrived