by imarkanx
This
iron knife,
wooden handled,
from my father’s estate,
stained by sweat,
old chicken blood,
imbued with his memory.
In the farm shed,
we butchered,
reverent silence,
wearing boots of black.
Plucking
ripe odor
of wet feathers,
assorted viscera,
staining the dawn.
Thirty birds,
headless, heartless,
heading to market:
rinsed, wrapped, chilled.
Weighed and priced—
giblets extra.
After market,
we’d stop at Marta’s,
eggs over easy,
coffee black as our boots,
clink of cracked plates,
sizzle of iron grill.
Hatching our plans,
to start again.
Author’s Note
This poem is shaped from memories of growing up on a farm, sparked by an iron knife from my father’s estate. The blade, stained with memory, is a symbol of what gets passed down, quietly and without fanfare.
Istvan Markan, who writes as imarkanx, is a poet and short prose writer from Waterloo, Ontario. His work explores the extraordinary within the everyday, using spare language and evocative imagery to reveal emotional undercurrents. His writing can be found at imarkanx.substack.com