The Killing of the Beast
A poem
A poem
In the barn’s gloom, a hulking mass,
the beast at last, its breath ragged.
I grip the blade, try not to think
of the warm salty flow to come.
My arms strain with each blow.
Hoof-falls raise puffs of straw-dust.
Finally, the heavy thud of its skull
against the ground. A hot reek rises.
I fell to my knees beside it,
place my palm on the glazed eye.
No prayers murmured, no ritual words.
Only this searing truth,
I am what I am.
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