Rat Point
Death came once a fortnight
at Rat Point, in early evening. We hunkered on the bank above the killing board, weird little witnesses, lords of the flies.
The butcher, our father, ran it
like a lottery, herded a half- dozen motley sheep into a pen, slipped his curve-blade knife from its scabbard, spat on the whetstone, honed a glistening edge.
In one move, he swung the gate,
flipped the nearest animal and dragged it to the board, kicking the gate shut after.
Tipping back the big dumb head
he slashed the pink of parted wool. Blood spat, the four legs ran, and the butcher set to work.
Ropes and pulleys and steel
hooks were handy in the tree. Our father made incisions in the beast’s knees, hoisted and hooked up the carcass, sliced fast down the belly. A mass of steaming guts fell away, under the fence wire into the trickling stream.
The onlookers — death-row sheep,
the line of skinny dogs on chains and little front-row patrons — were frozen, watchful, mute.
It remained only to peel skin
from flesh and sinew, to saw the still-warm carcass into edible portions. Later, while we listened in to Randy Stone and the Night Beat, the hawk and the rat, the stoat and the ferret fought over leftovers and drank from the stream.
I can’t pinpoint quite when
our butcher-father severed head from body. Or what became of the four neat hooves. The shearers, we’d been told, liked to eat the eyes.
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