slaughtering-hens

ON SLAUGHTERING THE HENS LAST SUNDAY

 
August clung tiredly
to the hidden parts where our limbs connect
holding our breathe on humid mornings
when full exhales seem hopeless.
 
“I don’t mind the noise,” the neighbor said.
“It’s them country smells that get me.”
 
But the indoor temperatures more approximate
the outdoors now, the air like a Mutsu
sweetening the view
of things dying while we dream:
lawns that stole our weekends away;
mosquitoes that chased us back inside;
weekend alarm squawks that awoke the block;
days so long that the possibilities
seemed stifling;
 
the chlorophyll that cloaked the sunset shade of maple leaves,
dried-blood oak, yolk-yellow ginkgo.
 
Now, with the freezer full, let’s be honest
fall was how we really felt
all along.
 
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