NewPoetry

Gillian Wigmore

 

it was evening, or call it dusk.

a man held a knife to the blue skin

of the calf’s groin

stretched like a bridge across a gap

and pushed in.

there was blood, like you’d imagine it,

but also

the skin parting before the knife,

a giving in as well as the give

that is the force of the blade, so slight,

because my father is a hunter

as well as a doctor.

the steel pushing ahead of itself –a ghost knife

incising. that evening: heavy dew and wind

high in the treetops, the leaves growing indistinct,

the farmer eventually turning his truck headlights on

to ease the post mortem

and that gap? it glowed pink and then it was morning

not evening, the pink the pink of the blood vessels

in your ears when the sun’s behind you

and shining in my eyes.

there’s no coming back from what you’ve seen.

you can undo thoughts, the radio

is just the radio. maybe you know

before you know that what comes next

is indelible.