The rusty squeak of summer
a goose egg shell, the sky
a washed out awning
that afternoon burdens
briefly the swelter sun, the sky
soapwater, the sky
the season shifts toward wilt and drip
toward blanching sunlight
the first bullet
one finger width above the eyes
middle of the forehead
always works
I tie it by its legs
jugular vein cut its throat
close to the jaw
let the blood run into a bucket
to save for sausage
if the weather’s cold
but not freezing
let the meat hang all night to chill
start skinning at the legs
be careful not to cut
the guts, the stomach
be careful not to ooze
I will dump the final blood plop
into the pig slop
let them gorge on dying
broken leg: the dog hops
it will have to be removed:
but a dog is not a horse
doesn’t need to be taken
to the edge of a field
overgrown with wild grass
already gone to seed
that giant leaf weed
the middle of nowhere
and shot in its head
its body left to animal maws
to insects, the weather
so the next spring only blanches
of stripped white bones like thunder
if you shoot a coyote
dangle it from the rafters of your barn:
it stiffens like a wooden omen
limestone, saltwash blanch, primer, the sky
milk squeezed into a pail, the sky
whatever molt is on the floor, the sky
but now it opens to shadow and squinting
he asks:
how does he split it? how does he choose which one?
the best ones are cubes
how long do you age it?
what do you do with the entrails?
wash them all clean
like the summer sunlight washes the road to cinderblock.
he asks:
how tough is the skin on its throat?
what sound does it make? what scream? what thrashing?
touch your own neck, I say
yeast, the sky
an old man’s beard, the sky
beer foam, the sky
flour paste, the sky
lamb’s wool, the sky
the pelt on a river, a creek, the sky
one corn ear is enough to plant a quarter acre
one corn ear will keep me full an entire year
let the birds tutor you
on where to step
on how to hunt and gather
let the small animal scat
the snow corner of a yard
where wind and sun can’t work
let the dogs sniffing down
the dirt road
carpet padding, the sky
a night light, the sky
frost on a metal roof, the sky
a crack of the ice cap, the sky
three years until an olive tree’s first fruit
all years after that: more and more
and more and more
when they are healthy, there is no stink
I let them wander the olive grove hills
feed them acorns to give perfect flavor
(late summer green) to the meat and to the fat
liver, heart, intestines, kidneys: nothing wasted
ears, skin: nothing wasted.
I can break one down in under an hour
from the first cut until I’ve laid it out
each part ready to be trimmed
of course I’ll slaughter whatever I ought to
no bother when the knife and a rope
for hanging, for dripping is right here
always ready
I ask him:
could you snare a rabbit?
could you stone knock a bird
from the tree branch, from the sway
of a powerline gone dead?
could you butcher both
before roasting them over a fire
you flinted to blaze?
the sky again:
the cistern of my old man heart.
