Tuesday, April 26, 2011


She took me by the hand once and led me
down a steep path into a meadow full
of hopeful wildflowers.  On the periphery
fawns pranced, trampling the lillies,
idyllic, unafraid.  She led me there to show
me how exacting the world was, sat me down
on a slab of granite washed over with black
lichen.  I watched her remove something
sharp, something honed from her bag.
The bag was made of not-quite-human skin.
She had trafficked in death for longer
than I had walked these hills and could
sense my apprehension.  One of the fawns
approached her, unafraid, but not unknowing.
The slitting was so fast, so clean, so merciful.
The fawn fell, just like that, and the flowers,
still hopeful, shifted into redness.  I started
to cry, but she put her fingers on my eyelids,
and said: “This is all there is.  Watch it.”


Rallentanda said...

This poem is truely remarkable in its sensitivity and perceptiveness.
A very moving tribute to suffering.

Gil said...