Slaughter

Franklin belonged to me, like Antony to Cleopatra. After his mother died, he came to my house before school because I had mother to spare. She let him watch He-Man and eat Cheerios while she brushed my hair into a ponytail. I’d seen a headless chicken in his yard. His father watched me watch it run crazy. The life of it escaping through that topless, uncorked neck. Franklin chewed his nails and hid his fingers inside velour sleeves. He poked holes in the cuffs for his wrinkled thumbs so he could draw with the bitten down nub of a pencil. I knew when we grew up, Franklin would marry me. He would go to work and slaughter our chickens in the evening. He would hold my hand. I showed him my devotion by holding my umbrella over his head at the bus stop. I watched my betrothed at recess to ensure kids were not calling him a motherless child or a crybaby. I confessed my love by kicking at geese who chased us while we ran back up the hill. When we moved away, I thought Franklin would find me. I can’t remember his mother, except for the day she stood at their counter cracking eggs and one came out wet and squirming in a pool of slime. A small, feathered thing killed before it had the chance to live.