A turkey
follows a woman wrapped
in winter coat. An axe
weighs down her right hand.
Her daughter wipes up
a dozen smashed eggs
from the red tiled kitchen floor,
her father’s shallow breathing still
fresh in her mind, his heart
seeming to stop, after he
swallowed too many sleeping pills,
washed down with vodka.
Today, he awakes to the thought
that his life goes on.
He buys a pair of sturdy boots,
and selects a book to read
in the evenings.
Not having any god to praise,
and scoffing at luck,
he thanks his strong heart.
There are white feathers
on the draining board
beside the sink.
Mother washes her blood-stained fingers
under the gushing faucet.
Superb poem, David … If I’m a camera, cautiously opening the door, I first see the turkey, why’s he following the woman, why does she have an axe? What violence sent a dozen smashed eggs to the floor, then the viewpoint deftly shifts to the father, who took too many sleeping pills, but it didn’t kill him, so he resigns himself to living. Then I see the mother’s bloody fingers, andthe turkey must be dead… your present tenses throughout keep the tension up, keep the reader guessing. What is going to happen? Or has it already…so well done.
Good poem. Thumbs up on the life affirmation. Like how you threaded the poem: that red/heart/blood; the trust in S1 and that ominous axe; the life/death image of smashed eggs . Details not overdone. Like the intention of the sturdy boots and the characterisation in thanking his heart not luck/gods.
A lot to like! My only nit crit is whether you need to specify kitchen.