The Word
by Caroline Schopp
clean the word, last year turned sour
the stench clung
clean the word with your thumbs
and a white cloth, bathe it
in pear soft oils
plant it in black silt by the riverbank
dad cleans the word, two cut breasts
from the limp drake, holds them
in the sun, a piece of shot
dad cleans the word, grips the torn skin
slides the knife through
saves a tuft of speckle
I clean the knife with the hose
hide near the shed
the down blows north in the wind
the dog licks the last clots
and scent from the grass
I tell her, kennel
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