We sailed on the lake before the storm
I felt my hair stand on end
I saw this on others
a family in tinfoil hats
weren’t disturbed
by the forecast
of lightning
the water calm
golfers settled into hip sockets
doctor’s orders to keep
synovial joints in motion
each time I asked
is it safe
I ruined everyone’s fun
for fear, my own
I didn’t dare
carry mortality
into deep waters where the gar swim
I wanted to go to shore
I wanted to eat again
we could go shopping
we could take the pig home
and when we did
we found a pencil-thin vein
of meat running through the loin
the rest was fat
to sputter on the grill
we’d been taken by the butcher
who lived
we thought
where fat was good
the dog unhinged
the bone that let his jaw drop
to the floor
the only pose more sad
than death
could you imagine
my friend wished for, on occasion
his pets to disappear
he did so in the name of vacation
between himself and every
imagined afternoon in Mexico
a dog guarded the hallway
he said to me
across the flames
I’m firing blanks
I hadn’t asked how
he was doing
his silver sedan
was red with sunset
and I was fine imagining
we hadn’t begun this
conversation
feels like rain, I said
he said, so no children
for now
it was natural and otherworldly
on the hood of the car
the way only light
can bring an end to itself
rope swing tied
to a hollow branch
no one knew
was hollow
little known lives
beneath bark
we are told not to strip it
to hammer things there
to climb or tie
webbing to its waist
but I don’t mean this
to be another commentary
on what is permitted
we were safe for now
the storm had missed us
a distant road
glimpsed through the trees
the intermittences of travel
flash of an Aldis lamp
was there a game?
a speech on TV?
rain hit the coals
and smoked
evening ceded
its momentum
a friend found the butcher
in the forest picking leaves
from his sweater
the deck altar-like
lit with citronella
my friend tossed his thesis
on the flames
an anthropologist
in awning of light
we played dice over
the body
the game was
roll and roll
until two eyes appear
someone would win
and take the head home
they would make cheese
I was bound to lose
my friend was first son
of Chance
that was his father’s name
he got mileage from this joke
people ate it up
come morning we’d pay
in thankless tasks
of tidying
in the dark
dock joints creaked to their gods
until one bolt
was cast from its bracket
into the reeds
likely lost forever
in its absence
our enterprise
found relief
the fact that jetsam
might save us
was not lost
on the smoke
I wonder how the day would have gone
had we followed instructions
I had almost forgotten
electricity
but suddenly it was there
tickling follicles
a hare sensed we were sated
and dared venture from the penumbra
safe from all
but the owl
we placed a glass bowl
over it
now safe from everything
but the inside
red mountain heather
held some daylight in its bells
if we noticed this
were we not barbarians?
I stabbed the last pickled beet
on my plate
the last green sheep had gone to bed
the butcher buttoned
his black-checked shirt
and fastened his blood-red apron
his moustache was a century old
and more serious than I remembered
he walked off
down the road
because every
single day
work begins
even the sun
makes the same commute
you could believe me
or stay here all day
to follow it
the butcher a mile off now
crying
“she was my queen!”
forgive me
I’m only as human as the last place
I’ve slept
forgive us
when we protect ourselves
in forms
that might appear unloving