In honor of Grandma Ione Hada’s memory (96 years, and counting)

Grandma dressed catfish,
that’s how she said it.
Her large calloused hands gripped
pliers and the head
and pulled hard in opposite directions
until the skin grudgingly yielded
to her strength.

Then she grabbed her butcher knife,
the one she used to dress chickens,
that’s how she said it,
and slit the belly
and circumspectly fingered out entrails
under a running spigot
before she finally chopped off the head.

Those virile death-hands holding
firm the soft slippery victims,
those same hands that touched
my fevered forehead,
patted my sunburned shoulders.

from The Way of the Wind
Village Books Press, 2008