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