Minor Chores

I

My father used to call the tops of acorns

little elves hats, and when the trees turned

in the fall he called the color

chartreuse. My mother used to call my father

whenever she needed a wasp killed,

so she could pick herself

up off the grass . . . or carpet . . . or wherever

she had thrown her allergic body

to find refuge from

Vermin. My father always liked them. He

used to talk about their value

in the garden and how good they were

to eat in Thailand during Vietnam. He knew

they always had some job to do and I knew that

He was the Devil incarnate. Only because he was an atheist

and grew foods organically, which just didn’t seem

natural to a teenager who wanted a father

just like every other father who worked

in an office. Not an organic farmer who believed

animals would talk

On Christmas Eve. 

II

He pretended to be Paul Bunyon

and I was Babe the Blue Ox when we went

to pick out the tree and drag

it back through the snow. Flannel shirt, blue jeans,

chucka boots, and knit cap kept out

the elements, except where icicles formed

on his nostril hairs. He kicked snow

at the dog to keep her out

of the way. She always

hung her head for disappointing

Her best friend. He played with her

for hours. Training her to dance

for food, protect the house, follow him in case

he needed her

to herd animals or for other

Minor chores. That is why

I came to the farm on a

Friday in August when I was

twenty-two. He needed his school bus

cleaned before he drove it in

the fall. But, the morning was hot, even

In the shade, under the limb

of  an expansive tree. He moved

the bus out of the sun for me. I heard

the sound and told my father

to listen. It was foreign—a long,

loud, high-pitched sigh.

Pale and quiet, he left the bus.

I could see him

sitting in the driveway

Holding her. She was alive

but her breathng was ragged, and he

just held her.  Told her there would be

lots of squirrels to chase

where she was going. But she wouldn’t go so

He carried her. 

III

I stood in the yard. A little girl

again, he told me to stay

and carried her, all the while

talking in her ear.  He laid her

in the reeds and left her

for a moment. She was lying there

Hanging on. Each moment to the next.

I heard him return but could not see

him. His low voice was

promising. 

I only knew his intention

when I heard the gun. Then, I heard my Daddy cry.