Good Day
the butcher sharpens his hooks
patron saint of the circular saw
he stands stiffly with death like a groom
atop a cake
as a child I was a sea
the sea left behind
in the middle of the desert
the butcher drives
the empty roads home
hazard lights like two eyes
blinking closed
the butcher’s eyes are
my mother’s
in the morning
a perfect imprint of a boot
in blood
on the kitchen floor
a good day’s work
once a year I arrive
home empty
handed
now
we eat