NaPoWriMo 21

True Story #4: If Memory Serves

The farmer cut the jugular and bled the buffalo
right there on the highway, its massive head hung

at a right angle, the tender flesh cut beneath the throat,
drawing its hot blood down and out onto the street.

Moments earlier, it had escaped from its trailer.
Frantic commuters waved down the farmer,

who did not see the confused animal
stagger then dart into oncoming traffic.

And the farmer, on his way to the butcher,
took out a rifle and shot the beast in the head

four times to save the meat, still edible,
to feed insatiable carnivores stuck in traffic,

the taste of that blood song
smudged across their lips forever.


Catherine said…
mmm - did you mean edible? Otherwise, nice poem. (Nice is a horrible word. But my brain is fried tonight).
January said…
Editable? Now that's a Freudian slip. Must have been thinking about work. Thanks Catherine.

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