To her children she was magic--
kneading flour and water into sticky loaves
that rose on the window’s ledge, planting
seeds that grew into plucked potatoes.
Wrestling a chicken with one hand,
butcher knife in the other, fist around neck
as she dragged it to the tree stump,
her apron never bloodying.
Standing knee-deep in the creek,
rubbing and wringing out soiled linen
over limestone, using soap she boiled
from lye and lard. After divorcing
her husband in the sixties, she still
cooked and hand delivered meals
to his doorstep, stayed up knitting
afghans from every shade of yarn
so he won’t chill at night, she told
her children, but they knew better--
she was magic: always making
something out of nothing.