deepundergroundpoetry.com
Butcher
The garage had once more
Been transformed into a butcher’s shop.
Was I fourteen or nine?
A young man or a boy?
Was it a Sunday?
It was if it adds magnitude.
What happens in a year is forgettable;
What happens in a minute lasts our whole lives.
My father gutting squirrels
Hands me the liquid red knife.
Squeamish, I drop it, and I run.
Been transformed into a butcher’s shop.
Was I fourteen or nine?
A young man or a boy?
Was it a Sunday?
It was if it adds magnitude.
What happens in a year is forgettable;
What happens in a minute lasts our whole lives.
My father gutting squirrels
Hands me the liquid red knife.
Squeamish, I drop it, and I run.
Published 13th Jun 2012
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Anonymous
13th Jun 2012 8:58pm
I love verse one's last line. That sums up what poems are: truths magnified through a kaleidoscope. The second verse is beautifully evocative, bursting with colour and emotions. Thanks for the read.
13th Jun 2012 9:34pm
