where god is a butcher

i.

there is a slaughterhouse
where the hungry men reincarnate
as bulls. a cleaver spattered in red
teases: chase me, chase me now,
caresses a thigh, then thrusts
its tongue like a knife.


ii.

he hangs in wet pieces.
the street salivates with rain,
swallows the leaves
that once lined the way.

a boy eyes his flank,
an old man trades silver
for his feet, a girl enters
and passes him by.


iii.

if he had lips
or life, he would beg,
daughter, it is i!
but she chews the fat

with the cashier: a new child,
weather, supper plans after
mass for her widowed mother.
she wraps him in the morning
paper, tucks him in her bag.

the butcher tears his apron
as the clouds gnash above.


iv.

she rubs salt against his flesh,
kneads wine into his back, stiff
and splayed on a wooden rack.

slipped into warm jaws,
he finally softens:
contented to be
the last meal.


v.

tomorrow, a lamb will be born


.