The first time my students kill
a chicken they are not good at it.
I show them how to still
the wings in their hands, to will
the flipped bird into a cone and slit
its throat. But the first time my students kill
a chicken they move with doubt instead of skill.
Their bodies shake, suddenly unfit
for this. I try to show them how to be still.
I try to show them how to be gentle until
they make the cut, to hold on even as the blood drips.
The first time my students kill
a chicken, I want them to fill
a church with candles and worship.
They don’t know how to still
pray to that church (this is the skill)
and be the one that burns it
down. The hundredth time I kill
a chicken, I don’t know how to do this still.
Author Bio: Ben Swimm is a second-year MFA candidate at Oregon State University, where he serves as poetry editor for the program’s literary magazine, 45th Parallel. He co-owns and operates a small vegetable farm in Alaska, and has spent much of the last 10 years working on educational farms. His poems have recently appeared in Alaska Quarterly Review, Salamander, and Camas.
