Why My Mother Needed the Garage Sale Rooster
Because of rust, she stopped.
Because of its maimed rebar feet,
marred beak, butter-yellow head
topped with a crimson cock.
Because of its ruddy wattles dangling
over a flash-green body. She remembered
when she was eight. Remembered
Grandmother’s blameless hands
feeding the chickens, her every day task.
Because Grandmother had grabbed a rooster,
a bloodstained axe in her hand and thrown
his struggling body on a wood block.
And chopped. Bloody, feathered-black,
his body flailed on without a head
sight spurting from his veins.
The noonday sky fired red-sharp streaks.
Because Grandmother stood close
as water simmered in a big cast iron pot,
Mother learned to pluck blazed feathers,
to drop the finally quiet body
into the pot.
Because the rooster fell.
For supper. For her.
She stopped.
Because she could not resist.
Backyard Coffee Break
When you look out at the backyard,
away from the drama in your head,
when you push up from the shallow
ground, your worries subside. You see
your shrubs and bushes differently,
and the fun begins. It’s all good.
Old Age. Do what you want. Don’t
say sorry. Don’t hurry anymore.
Open the slider in the morning.
Journal a few lines. No one will bother
to read the scribble. It’s OK. Obsess
over trimming the oleanders.
Bend the branches.
Educate them in ways to grow.
Move pots around the patio. Admire
the garage sale rooster.
Read Wendall Berry’s Peace of Wild Things.
Be here now, like Baba Ram Dass.
Don’t let Mr. Guilt snake
into the chair, slime into your head.
Go fill your coffee cup.
Cheryl Heineman graduated December 2017 with a Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing from San Diego State University. She also has a Master’s degree in Jungian Psychology and has published four collections of poetry: Just Getting Started, something to hold onto, It’s Easy to Kiss a Stranger on a Moving Train, and Future Comings.
