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Sunday, 8 April 2018

That Was the MUSE That Was

Butcher

I think my neighbour
is training to be a butcher.
I hear him at his work.
He leaves his door open.
I can hear
the systematic slapping of
large soft joints
against hard bloody surfaces.
He yells about his business -
coarse and vulgar words.

He is not the sort to wear protective gloves.

I think he enjoys
the chopping and tenderising.
His hands are stained
and his thick sausage fingers
grab hungrily at flesh.
His meat hangs about
in a cold room
looking something like it used to,

but less and less as the days pass.

© Fran Hill


Fran Hill is a writer and English teacher based in Warwickshire, UK.


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