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The Butcher Shop
The carcass hung suspended
in a numbed shadow of the mind,
no more an animal, a form
that once lived and drew a breath.
It was now transformed into nothing
more than meat. Headless,
hoofless, quartered and stripped
of hide, what remained had no identity
but a shape, marked out
in imaginary grid lines ready
for the saw to reduce such bulk
to cuts of beef.
I spent my Friday afternoons
in the company of victims of this
deconstructed life, sweeping the floors
and washing down benches glazed
with grease and blood.
My fathers butcher shop
held a corner on the main road,
our surname emblazoned in bold
print across the top. Such,
for me, straddled the distance between
pride and shame. The grace to celebrate
my fathers honest trade rubbed
against the pose I was crafting
to compete in the hierarchical orderings
of a growing middle class.
It clashed with my slide into becoming
a snob.
In truth though, I had no stomach
for the trade. I would heave on the smell
given off when hot water melted grease.
Something in me recoiled on the sight
and feel of blood. The brine vat
was a dark cesspool that fouled every
sense I had. As a small child
I can remember standing beneath
the carcass of a lamb and looking
up into the hole of its headless neck.
A drop of blood fell on my cheek.
The vision of a crucified Christ
flashed in my mind, and I,
beneath the cross, was splashed
with the guilt of His blood.
From then on, there was a sense
of the unholy that always lingered
in the little Calvary of butcher shops.
Copyright ©
Paul Willason
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