two posts today…
The children sleep and in a still house
I pour blood down the drain.
Scarlet drips from bowl’s edge and I’m struck
with images of the cutting of a throat, pools and reek of
of plasma, cells, platelets,
and this appeal of peaceable vegetarianism.
I rub the marinate into the lamb,
blood ponding on plate,
my hand massaging the meat,
fingers pressing out more blood,
and think of socially acceptable religion,
my nostrils filling with this stench of sin,
and my one beating heart hurting for the only God whose wild love
had him tear open a vein
and do the repulsive,
become a lamb dragged to the slaughter
without bleating or begging
to cleanse this mess
stained deep into my skin.
every year, preparing the lamb, I return to this…