The table was covered in the blood
Of past victims left at the knife,
The long knife given to me from you,
Before you used it to chop me into pieces.
Where do the remains go?
In the slop bucket left out in the rain,
The snow, the sun, the wind.
Forgot what you meant when you said you promised
I forgot what it felt like to be punched.
Alone, left with nothing but the comfort of cold,
And the awaiting of the butcher,
To cut, strip skin, leave the rest to rot
On the side of the brick building,
And sell the other parts for some small profit.
You work so hard with little thanks,
Toiling nonstop in the wet heat,
The airless dark.
I picture you as the type of kid
On the side of the pavement
Poking at a dead squirrels body
With a distorted sense of fascination.
Let the red rain settle,
Cover the snow with someone’s blood
Split chalice of wine, with a more metallic taste.
The knife was silver,
It's blade long,
And the hand that held it,