You must go out to the paddockwhere it’s never warm.The ox must be slaughteredfor his shoulder blade.The ox you loved, even. The onewho watched you turn away,going back into the house.Attend the bodyin the field for days,letting beetles devour the meat,washing the oracle boneswith wine. Meanwhile,flies will give birthin the ox’s eye, be drawnto the barn cat as she dies, zeroingaround her. Soon you’ll askthe necessary question.What is a season?A thing of beauty to be lovedin this life.
Copyright © 2019 by Quinn Lewis
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry Daily with permission.
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