Melva Sue Priddy
Melva Sue Priddy, a native Kentuckian, lives near Lexington, Kentucky, with her husband Gene Strode.
Together they share five children and eleven grandchildren. Melva Sue attended Berea College and The University of Kentucky before completing an MFA in Writing from Spalding University’s Low Residency Writing Program. She has had a long relationship with Hindman Settlement School's Appalachian Writers’ Workshop. She writes to save her sanity and she gardens to keep out of jail. Her poems, a short story, book reviews and articles have been published in ABZ Magazine; Appalachian Heritage; Bigger Than They Appear; Blood Lotus: On line journal: Foxfire’s Hands On: A Journal for Teachers; Motif 2 and Motif 3; Standing on the Mountain; and Still: On line journal. |
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
MIGRATING BIRDS
Over the pulsating milking machines,
we heard the birds that came from Canada
to Mexico, a flock that filled the sky
grew louder and louder as their shadow
pulled one great dark body over the land.
We forgot they were coming until
they came—the noise, not their throats
but their wing whirls—we clambered
to the barn’s window to peer out up through
layers of birds—thick bird clouds,
black clouds, until the air thickened,
complete darkness; thunderous,
deafening. Some said they
rested a day or two at a lake close by
back off the road out of sight
before lifting on south—seems
mother had lived there once
on Bloody Ridge near Wolford Lake.
One year they drove us there. We
approached slowly. Found the trees
encircling the lake covered
with a calm black blanket.
published
by The Single Hound
we heard the birds that came from Canada
to Mexico, a flock that filled the sky
grew louder and louder as their shadow
pulled one great dark body over the land.
We forgot they were coming until
they came—the noise, not their throats
but their wing whirls—we clambered
to the barn’s window to peer out up through
layers of birds—thick bird clouds,
black clouds, until the air thickened,
complete darkness; thunderous,
deafening. Some said they
rested a day or two at a lake close by
back off the road out of sight
before lifting on south—seems
mother had lived there once
on Bloody Ridge near Wolford Lake.
One year they drove us there. We
approached slowly. Found the trees
encircling the lake covered
with a calm black blanket.
published
by The Single Hound
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Unwilling
We had trouble breaking in fresh heifers,
young and small in stature as we were,
their first time into the milking stalls
after weaning their calves from nursing;
the tight quarters, steps, turns, and narrow stalls.
The older cows knew the drill and stood still.
Some young instinctively stood for father, his face above
flank level; some kicked and balked when he walked
out the door. But there was one heifer
who never left the barn. She would not
stand and he would not give in--
he beat her about the head with a 2 by 4
then quickly cut her throat to bleed,
saved the meat as three of us watched,
did as told, opened the doors
releasing the other cows, washed out
the blood; finished milking and cleaned up
once he’d loaded her carcass to take
to the slaughter house. Not long after, another heifer
fixed with mechanical kickers
managed to startle the other cows so much
they broke the door and fled the barn.
She bucked across the field until
she broke the kickers. We chased
her, wild-eyed, back in and father
tied her in the stall to a tall metal post, resorted
to a 2 by 4 until she fell and hung herself
—all because she wouldn’t be still.
He was mad that we needed him to help,
then mad that she’d broken the kickers,
mad that she’d wasted our time running around
and god knows a cow won’t give down milk
after running around. And then to fight
and hang herself—the meat poor because
of her recent calving. Lots of things don’t need to be
put into words in a barn like that.
published by Blood Lotus
young and small in stature as we were,
their first time into the milking stalls
after weaning their calves from nursing;
the tight quarters, steps, turns, and narrow stalls.
The older cows knew the drill and stood still.
Some young instinctively stood for father, his face above
flank level; some kicked and balked when he walked
out the door. But there was one heifer
who never left the barn. She would not
stand and he would not give in--
he beat her about the head with a 2 by 4
then quickly cut her throat to bleed,
saved the meat as three of us watched,
did as told, opened the doors
releasing the other cows, washed out
the blood; finished milking and cleaned up
once he’d loaded her carcass to take
to the slaughter house. Not long after, another heifer
fixed with mechanical kickers
managed to startle the other cows so much
they broke the door and fled the barn.
She bucked across the field until
she broke the kickers. We chased
her, wild-eyed, back in and father
tied her in the stall to a tall metal post, resorted
to a 2 by 4 until she fell and hung herself
—all because she wouldn’t be still.
He was mad that we needed him to help,
then mad that she’d broken the kickers,
mad that she’d wasted our time running around
and god knows a cow won’t give down milk
after running around. And then to fight
and hang herself—the meat poor because
of her recent calving. Lots of things don’t need to be
put into words in a barn like that.
published by Blood Lotus
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Cutting Ice
Pull bread sacks over extra socks
our father said then find some boots.
After we do, Lorie drags the ax
from the back porch in a jagged line
behind her in the snow, so I take the ax
and shoulder it. Then we walk out
to the pond to cut the thick skim and shovel
with the double blade to flip ice like fish.
Cut four holes in the same places I cut them
yesterday, do you hear me, then call the cows
our father said, so over and under the five inch
frozen loft that covers the water the cows want, we cut.
In summer they’d drank there, pissed and manured.
Steam and heat that burn our nostrils now
would then have been swallowed by the pond.
You can skate after that ’til your hands get cold
but don’t go near the middle our father said
and don’t yell unless something is wrong.
Mud-cats and frogs hibernate cold, our guess,
far below, as our oversized boot soles slog and slide.
And bring the ax back, you hear?
Lorie and I will laugh, run and push
each other ’til we are out breath because
we’ve pulled extra socks over our hands to keep warm.
published
by Still: The Journal
our father said then find some boots.
After we do, Lorie drags the ax
from the back porch in a jagged line
behind her in the snow, so I take the ax
and shoulder it. Then we walk out
to the pond to cut the thick skim and shovel
with the double blade to flip ice like fish.
Cut four holes in the same places I cut them
yesterday, do you hear me, then call the cows
our father said, so over and under the five inch
frozen loft that covers the water the cows want, we cut.
In summer they’d drank there, pissed and manured.
Steam and heat that burn our nostrils now
would then have been swallowed by the pond.
You can skate after that ’til your hands get cold
but don’t go near the middle our father said
and don’t yell unless something is wrong.
Mud-cats and frogs hibernate cold, our guess,
far below, as our oversized boot soles slog and slide.
And bring the ax back, you hear?
Lorie and I will laugh, run and push
each other ’til we are out breath because
we’ve pulled extra socks over our hands to keep warm.
published
by Still: The Journal
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
On Accidents of Birth and Fate
Stoy Booker:
Somehow we also influence
the shape the self becomes
like the index finger
Bertha lost when we were playing
in the chicken lot.
Barely big enough to toss
a hatchet, I’d aimed at the stump
thunking and retrieving
where Man butchered chickens.
When I said, Berthie,
put your
hand up here on this block
and I’ll chop your finger off
she didn’t hesitate.
Younger than me,
she offered her digit up.
My quick cut
lopped it off
at the second knuckle
and into the dirt where she sat.
Stoy? all she said.
She didn’t cripple nor bleed to death
though other ways we kenned the loss.
Bertha Booker:
We always layed out back
where Mommy killed chickens.
My brother Stoy said, jesting,
Berthie, put your hand
up here and I’ll chop your finger off.
I saw him heft the hatchet
over his head, all the same
I lifted my forefinger
and he cut if off
at the second knuckle
straight through.
My finger laid in the dirt
where the heads usually fell.
Still, I laid out my girls’ dresses
and my boys’ shirts picking up scissors
and pieced goods, I didn’t need no pattern.
What didn’t pass from one
to the other, I took apart
and cut down, never threw
anything out. My first three married
before my last one born, nine lived.
It was a fever took the one at six weeks.
Morning of the burial, I took a knife
to the field and cut black-eyed susans
to carry for his grave. Only one
more come after that.
published in Motif 2: Come what may, an anthology of writings about chance.
Somehow we also influence
the shape the self becomes
like the index finger
Bertha lost when we were playing
in the chicken lot.
Barely big enough to toss
a hatchet, I’d aimed at the stump
thunking and retrieving
where Man butchered chickens.
When I said, Berthie,
put your
hand up here on this block
and I’ll chop your finger off
she didn’t hesitate.
Younger than me,
she offered her digit up.
My quick cut
lopped it off
at the second knuckle
and into the dirt where she sat.
Stoy? all she said.
She didn’t cripple nor bleed to death
though other ways we kenned the loss.
Bertha Booker:
We always layed out back
where Mommy killed chickens.
My brother Stoy said, jesting,
Berthie, put your hand
up here and I’ll chop your finger off.
I saw him heft the hatchet
over his head, all the same
I lifted my forefinger
and he cut if off
at the second knuckle
straight through.
My finger laid in the dirt
where the heads usually fell.
Still, I laid out my girls’ dresses
and my boys’ shirts picking up scissors
and pieced goods, I didn’t need no pattern.
What didn’t pass from one
to the other, I took apart
and cut down, never threw
anything out. My first three married
before my last one born, nine lived.
It was a fever took the one at six weeks.
Morning of the burial, I took a knife
to the field and cut black-eyed susans
to carry for his grave. Only one
more come after that.
published in Motif 2: Come what may, an anthology of writings about chance.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In These Hands
At market yesterday
I found everything to be a
song--
the cloth I touched and caressed
between my fingers, the textures
teasing form one woman’s stall to the next,
the nubby bowls, the skins ready
to tan, even the familiar wash of finished
grey jugs. Every thing begged
to be held, the weight
searching for balance
in my hands, the lightness
surprising, the chill of newness
shining like cool stars.
unpublished
I found everything to be a
song--
the cloth I touched and caressed
between my fingers, the textures
teasing form one woman’s stall to the next,
the nubby bowls, the skins ready
to tan, even the familiar wash of finished
grey jugs. Every thing begged
to be held, the weight
searching for balance
in my hands, the lightness
surprising, the chill of newness
shining like cool stars.
unpublished