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Friend To The Knife
If I were a lamb,
I would be a favourite of the priest's.
I, being so docile and so sweet,
Would hold very still when they loop the rope
Around my neck. And then I would trot
So happily along, with no need for encouragement—
All the way to the altar, I would trot
With the rope constricted around my neck.
They do not have to tie me down; I will do all the work
For them, and I will perhaps bleat once or twice
But I lie ever so silent and still.
My limbs are so soft that the knife is met with no resistance
As it cuts through them like butter. I bleed so prettily
All over my new, white wool
That I can tell the priest holds pride.
I am exultant for my guts to unspool,
Like the most beautiful shining silk you ever did see—
And within my eyes there is no pain; they hold no
Accusation: they are just animal and dumb.
When I die, I do not stay away for long:
I am then a lamb again, with a thick, woollen coat—
And how the priest does love me so
That, for the sacrifice, I am picked again.
He loves to stroke me and touch my gentle limbs
As I am all his to love. The knife and I, we are friends:
So, when the time comes, I hold very still
As they wrap the rope around my neck,
And proceed to kiss me through the cold metal of the knife—
So intimate; so loving. I bleed all for them.
How delicately upon the wooden floor
My dead body lies.
Copyright ©
Amelie Ison
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