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,
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