The bloated creek runs pewter today
ducks slide down its length
webbed feet scrabbling for purchase.
An aeroplane grips the sky
sunlight on its belly as
it turns like a lolling cat.
The words on the email dance
in front of my blurred eyes,
kicking their heels, waving
their curled feathertops.
I rest my scarred hands on
the table, count the freckles
sunspotted like mud splatters;
one of them may turn on me.
Across the old wooden bridge
cows wait for milking, unwilling,
the water rushes through the broken slats.
The first step is the hardest,
they say, but the cows roll their eyes
and shift their hooves in the mud.

the blade curved like a metal rib
the edge honed again and again
	whining along the steel
the black handle stippled
	for a stronger grip
as the hand slices down
splitting skin and flesh
opening the heart to
	unfamiliar air
the blade sent back to the steel
	where the hone takes
minute shreds until
the curve is a sliver of moon
	promising darkness
the flesh that mounds
	on the slab
	rimmed with white curls of fat
	red with blooded rage
the hand that deals
with death’s remains
and cleans the blade
	the animal we never saw
	past the knife’s gleaming smile.