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- Sarah Day
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- CROSSING OVER
-
- You came and went, sampling knowledge
- with a querying tongue,
- licking the fat
- chewing thoughtfully on the bone
- finally trying my disingenuousness
- waved at the end of a fork -
- what is meat made of?
-
- Your subconscious was figuring it out
- hurtling images out of the dark
- like the little grey donkey
- burning in the field
- alone, braying to the deaf heavens.
- That night you covered your ears
- from a sorrow that tore even through my dreams;
-
- Another time, screaming, you watched
- a hare run for its life
- from the slicing knife,
- I see that leg as you dreamed it
- sailing through the forest’s air
- butcher in mad pursuit, implacable.
-
- On the street
- you pointed to the dead weight in the window,
- stared relentless at the stainless steel
- hooking those thin achilles tendons.
-
- Mother Goose helped...
-
- and the slips, like saying lamb
- instead of chop. Give-aways.
-
- Even when all shots were called though,
- I couldn’t admit the fraudulence
- behind Flossie and Mary’s little lamb;
-
- I wanted you at three
- to be imperious,
- to maintain the rage
- keep things black and white
-
- But it was already too late,
- you had already crossed over into the grey
- with me.
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