Friday night noise rises up through the floor. I can hear a girl scream,
divine her blubber through snot, imagine her scrambling from open
corners avoiding fists. This has been going on for too long.
Adrenaline buckles my knees on the stairs. Knuckles knock-knock.
He opens the door, naked, holding a hose. His red face caught.
The blonde, white-is-right, Brit wife-beater has tatts on his arms,
a butcher’s arrogance that disassembles everything in its view.
I understand why you would, but the noise, this late, it’s not good.
Inside, a female giggle turns to laughter, rolls off bed, sits up, legs
splayed. She wears a bra, see-through, slut, skirt hitched up. I see the cut
of her last rib, a thrust of hip that’s pulling at me, ready for another
round with this man with a hose. She loves me, or would if she were free.
The door closes. They share save-me-from-the-loon laughter. Upstairs
I examine my guts. The gristle that’s left on the chopping board.
The Butcher and the Haruspex