Butcher (Poetry)

He was very clean, white, neat — approaching surgical
hands and nails so smooth, a quiet smile
with even rows of teeth — a charm near-diabolical
you’d never guess his job... And for the short while
I knew him I thought he seemed unsuited for that
line of work.

His wife was graceful — small-boned and petite
with careful hair and spotless clothes disguising
her anxiety — the haunting unbloodied sheet
of infertility. No obvious consequences arising
except odd sighs when broody instincts rose up from
where they lurked.

I wondered — in their dark, how often and how close they came
to slaying love for pity’s unsaid sake —
was her raw flesh so different — or the same
beneath his hand — and could he sense the ache
for life denied? Was his sharp knife the irony of absence —
that severed blame?