Sunday Mornings

Late morning

mother made me

hold the rooster’s legs

as she hunched over

holding the wings

a horizontal slash across the neck


The blood poured

into a round ceramic bowl

muscles twitched

in death my hands

struggle for life


It was a necessity for

the ceremony

father would perform later

for grandmother

sick in bed


the feathers plucked

in warm water

the rooster sits on a plate

on a table, its throat open,

listening to my chanting father


The blood cooked

with the body,

now separated in sections

on a table

where father chants again



it becomes not my blood

feeds my flesh

while its spirit

belongs to the demons, my ancestors


My friends ask

why I don’t go to church on Sundays

they don’t know I’m pagan

I don’t tell them

they wouldn’t care


We are too young

to understand religion

but we know about family

we know what matters

life and death and spirits

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

Blog at

Up ↑

Mien Writers Association

Yietz Zungv Yiet Nzong

The Anthem

The Official Literary Magazine of Georgetown University



write meg!

Writing, Reading and Loving Like a Mother

Blogging for a Good Book

A suggestion a day from the Williamsburg Regional Library

The Better Man Project

the story of a human being unfolding

taste of colours

everything has got taste

Ray Ferrer - Emotion on Canvas

** OFFICIAL Site of Artist Ray Ferrer **

%d bloggers like this: