by Gianina Carter
The day is young and good
as all days should be, shining like yolk
from freshly cracked eggs, leaking
down, weighed with white
pure as a tumour staining
freshly hung sheets on the hill’s hoist.
Glass bowl plummets
towards grass, where flies
hover around dog shit and scraps
of left-over salad, plopped
into the dog bowl
as one would lay manure
in the garden bed.
Raw batter tumbles,
bowl and mix hits buffalo grass
upside-down like an exploded volcano
that grew old as it erupted, corrupting
Liquid spurts in globs
like faeces from an ill dog, spilling
into soil as if visiting an old friend.
Miner birds flit towards mound, pecking
and hopping, heads dart, watching
for predatory terrier.
sticking to grass, clotting like blood
drying on dying lamb’s throat,
gurgling from mouth.
Gash in the neck
open as the front door
of the house, ready for burglary.
Flies gather, laying eggs in muck.
Dogs scratch at screen door
desperate as if swimming to shore from ocean abyss.
field mines through wooden house.
Footsteps like earthquakes rumble,
back door squeals open.
Dogs on the hunt sniff
grass for evidence of crime, lick
sweet blood away.