The sacrifice was my idea. I wanted
to guard fields of turnip seeds,
corn and peas. To end
the persecution of crows,
to haunt the unchecked lives
of hawks, magpies and rats.
Even so,
it took years to junk major parts
of my ego. To withstand, without flinching,
rain and hail. To allow clothes
to fray to tatters.
I only took to drink
to hasten matters. Where muscles withered,
I grafted straw. I trained my arms
to arc like handlebars and waddled
on my ankles. Day or night I’d shriek
when anything got close.
When the crooks
got cynical and began to perch
on my mud-splattered sleeves, I surveyed
the looted crops and shrugged;
there were worse things to become
than an effigy
thumbing my nose at death.
VICKI KENNELLY STOCK
Previously published in the Kenyon Review Writer’s Workshop Anthology.
