Once, hunters thanked the patrician frailty of beasts
for their takeable flesh.
We punched the bloom of exit in buckskin hearts
shucked the husk from souls
exhaled into the mouths of leaves.
Or wherever we imagined they went.
But we are choked in ghost-thick air
laden with refugees from presumed pardon.
Where are the ebon eyes of the dead as they die?
Where is the skin that bounds off the wronged?
The jelly of tomatoflesh slips from its hide
a boiled heart. And on the cutting board
a tap head weeps off wet beads of seed citrine
strung with clusters of soap’s hollow pearls—
I’m sorry, I’m sorry, forgive this too.
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