Thinning our little herd
By Benjamin Dodds
For weeks
we had Baskerville
hounds in our heads
sweeping bold arcs
through feathered darkness
at the porch lights’ circle edge.
My father’s too-long absence
and the distortion
of farm-night acoustics
surely exaggerated their size
but the rigid carnage we’d find
stitched to the morning’s frozen
grass did little to lessen unease.
A man who was not our father
barked stark instruction
at my brother and me:
foolproof steps
for burning a gutted calf.
Originally included in Regulator, published by Puncher & Wattmann Poetry (2014).