The butcher is today thinking of knives.
One to pull ligament from joint and joint from bone.
One to carve muscle –
this knife his favorite and often
the butcher finds himself aroused
as he slices roast
for Mrs. Glass. One to cleave
through gristle and scare teenagers.
One to peel back skin.
This knife with a handle longer than blade
is rarely used. The butcher’s customers
prefer their meat wet with juice.
The butcher’s customers prefer their skin.
The cutlet knife, the sharpener and many others.
The butcher polishes his knives
and thinks of nothing
in particular – his shop, his hands,
the fleshy thighs on Mrs. Glass.
It is early, before dawn even,
as the butcher leaves his shop
and walks to the dumpsters.
There, a dog stupid with grin.
He calls it over with scraps
of yesterdays prime cut. Its neck
raw and bruised. The dog eats
as the butcher appraises it –
legs, haunches, shoulders, chest.
Its chest terrible with too much skin.
It has not eaten in very long,
the butcher thinks.
My customers will not be satisfied, he thinks.
The dog vomits and the butcher walks away
disappointed. He fingers his carving knife.
He thinks of four leaf clovers, salt,
anything that may bring luck.
He walks away from the dog, its vomit,
and digs the carving knife
into his palm. There is blood
and blood and nearby trucks
begin their daily routes. Daylight
begins to polish the street
and the butcher watches it all,
a strange prayer.