Akin to a Rooster's Crow

by Bonnie Stanard

It was at ten p.m. on a squeaky bed

that Mama pushed me out

while Grandma helped as she could

as she had for every other baby born in our house.

I puckered, squealed, and opened my eyes

to the frame walls, plank floors

and rattling doors of the farmhouse I grew to love.

Strange, how I won favor over and above

my brothers and sisters because I was born

when a relative lived with us,

a man without a home

and too sick for the Army.

My first attempts at words whistled

through my teeth and so charmed him

he took me with him everywhere

except fishing until I was three

and he was as old as he was going to be.

As my uncle, he made me worthy for better,

but at night he heaved for breath

and even yet, his struggle for air

suffocates memories of him.

Barely before my mother could recover from birthing me

a baby girl was born, and several years later

though my father objected, another brother.

We played in the hay loft, pastures, and fields,

climbed Chinaberry trees, swam in the Edisto River

and stayed with Grandma in the summers

along with my cousins, all boys.

The rough and tumble of gangland relatives

taught me to run and hide when I could

and when I couldn’t to tell lies and fight dirty.

Bio: Bonnie Stanard has been writing and editing for 25 years. Her poems and short stories have been published in numerous journals such as The MacGuffin, Slipstream, Harpur Palate, and Kestrel. In the 80s while she lived in Brussels, Belgium she edited a magazine for English speakers. On returning to the States, she assisted/edited/published periodicals in Virginia and South Carolina. She lives in Columbia, South Carolina.