The Butcher’s Block

It was the coldest,

most golden day.

Frozen hell fire

burning swaying

trees.

My heart turning,

aging,

knowing,

changing,

floating in a glass bowl,

naked,

exposed to the elements.

It was a beautiful day. 

The sun ignited

the leaves

and scattered

the way it would

through glass block.

My dad was ashes,

cold,

heavier than I expected,

in a plastic box

inside of a bag.

My cheeks fiery

in frozen wind,

burnt by autumnal pyres

with the gall

to invade me raw,

scattered,

leaf-like.

Leaving bright specks

across my vision.

Fall came late

and left me brittle,

ready to be a mote

in wind.

Pining for empty,

grey-brown-bended

branches

to break up

blank.

At dusk,

the roads were empty,

leaf strewn,

deaf to

the messy misfires

of my neurons.

I was ugly,

shredded with saws.

My father had his

leg cut off

and couldn't recover.

We are just

meat to be chopped

on the butcher's block,

eventually consumed.

I have learned forgiveness.

At the end, it was me

who had the butcher's knife,

the power to sever,

to coat my apron

in blood,

but I am dressed in white

and I am clean.