the song of slicing
chickens’ throats just north of Santa Fe
hanging them upside down from bare trees
their dark blood dripping down onto the dry soil
of the sangre de christo mountains.
and mornings spent humming in a winter barn
pushing around belligerent cows with stupid eyes
stepping, almost slipping, on black iced shit
then watching my breath steam out
over buckets of perfect white milk
and then the silence of that handsome shy boy
who sold street side horse meat
in the San Lorenzo district of Rome,
the boy my wife had a crush on
when she was on her way
to not being my wife.