Thanksgiving Harvest
Two days before Thanksgiving Pop told us boys
Get off the damned swings. My brother and me loved ours
because Pop hammered us with two seats and a knot-climb
from demo-picked lumber, ropes, and boy-designs
nailed at all the odd angles in his head. Pop told us
Chase down one of them turkeys. My brother shoved me
sideways on the rundown, but missed the tackle
he’d showoff-hoped to win. I scuffled back up, pounced
that turkey on his turnaround. Took my share of tail-flap
and leg-fight, but I pinned him and taunt-laughed
while my brother threatened to shove that turkey
clean-up to my giblets; our sour Pop cut him off,
throwing a leather jess at him saying Tie that bird’s feet
while your dumb little brother tries to hold on.
We’d had chickens, goats and chores, long as we knew—
but this was our first year of turkeys. Eight birds that us boys
fed twice-a-day—starting as fuzzy poults—with store-bought
grain, bugs and acorns Pop made us bucket-gather. Pop S-hooked
the swing set’s crossbar, hung my prize turkey there upside down.
That bird didn’t know which way his world was comically twisting.
We wanted to laugh, but Pop gave us no quarter. Took turns
chasing the other seven down and hoggy-turkey tying
for similar display. Turkeys flapping till they’re pinned,
blinking at us, dreaming of grasshoppers while their heads
fill with the pressures of their plump and clunky weight.
Pop said choose fast: quick knife, or axe-block. We didn’t
half-assed know what Pop was talking about, so asked
for half-and-half. My brother’s hand: first to receive Pop’s
ever-sharp folding pocket blade. Pop pointing at a neck-spot.
I cut second, my brother third, me fourth. Turning away
from the dripping, Pop moved on, pulled his double-bit axe
out of the splitting stump we used for chopping kindling—
axe went to my brother, me holding dizzy bird number five.
Pop grinned for the first time, showed the aiming spot
that left some spine above the neck. My brother and me
looked each other in the eyes. We’d seen succotash aversion
inside each other for most of our day’s and night’s mixings.
Axe met wood, I let go of those poor-flying feathers,
as Pop instructed. Then he howled: Chase that turkey
and we skedaddled after the stumbling headless flutter.
A nervous system trying its darndest to get away. Then
three more. Then plucking. While our father finished
his hard pint. He hung us by our belts from the S-hooks.
Hanging there, blood running to our heads, we saw
the coloring seep on the rough-cut board-seats of our swings,
in the knots of our climbing rope—knew we’d be seeing it
for the long time to come, long as we were living
with our father. At Thanksgiving, he never said grace.
Scott T. Hutchison’s poetry has appeared in Floyd County Moonshine, The Georgia Review, and The Southern Review. He grew up in Ashland, Virginia, and attended Virginia Tech for undergraduate work. His second book of poetry, Moonshine Narratives, is available from Main Street Rag Publishing. New work is forthcoming in Naugatuck River Review, Pine Mountain Sand & Gravel, Mobius, Whiskey Tit, Tampa Review, and Slipstream. He currently lives in the Belknap Mountains of New Hampshire.
