Today I am elbow deep
in some animal’s belly
pulling out the heart and stomach
for my mother’s table
brown rubber soles blood slicked
the swing of twin blades
cuts a whole village worth of pelts,
coon, carved bones for ladies
jewelry and coats. These hands
can ground down rock and gold
call a man sweet dusty, mold
knots of spit and hair like clay
until a baby’s head is perfectly round.
These hands are good for killing—
I feel this knowing rising
like different names for fire.
Every bone has a ghost–
the smallest, a stirrup in the ear
whispers walk carefully there
you come from a dark tribe.
Image Credits: Public Domain