nothing said

as a child
you saw your grandmother,
lina, wring a chicken's neck
in the bricked yard
behind her row house
in south philly.
it happened so quickly
and with such ease
that it startled you,
standing there with
a handful of seed
to give the noisy bird,
clucking and running
fat and white a few seconds
before its death.
later that night. you
ate the chicken with
small potatoes,
and greens. nothing ever
said.