I was strong enough
to break the wood into small pieces and feed
our fire. I kept our stove top warm.
But Mama would not send me out to cut a tree. "Not yet,"
she said, and put away the blade.
I was old enough
to feed the chickens, gather eggs
by myself. I watched out for them all.
But Mama would not let me wring their necks. "Not yet,"
she said, and wiped her brow, feathers stuck to her arm with blood.
Why I Dropped the Mushrooms
pop pop pop pop
pop pop pop
it sounded like
on a saints' day—
except for the
From Caminar, by Skila Brown. Copyright 2014 by Skila Brown. Reproduced with permission from Candlewick Press.