the village: one
when the old man kills a rabbit
first he strokes it
touches its head and soothes it
always a fresh clean chopping block
always a clean dry place
where the sun can reach its open eyes
when the head comes off.
he did a small dance,
carrying, stroking, shaking
the small corpse
as its life and blood pour out.
then cold streaming water
and the small, sharp knife
skin,
a dinner,
and crow's meat
to be raised on a pole platform
in the yard
an offering,
triumphant,
to Mother's janitorial crews.
All around the village the poles are raised, stinking.
It is the spring.
2009 Peter Greene.
