What is done is fodder,

no longer food, but a mill

where cows eat sawdust

and the air reeks of something

slaughtered in the shop over the hill,

where memories of blood are not

memories; they are now and bleeding.

I thought I told you about the large man

and his small penis. I thought I told you

I don’t like to say no. I thought I told you

I love animals so much I would die for them.

You say you don’t understand, as if my life

was a language you were trying to learn.

I show you a cut, curtsy when you touch

me there, scream like a wired rabbit.

You can’t possibly know and I can’t

possibly tell you how much I savor

the small mammal moves

my body makes when it finally

bites back,

how it feels to leave a scar.