a goat is a cone
concentric ribs hold
concave flesh
.
blue tarp above us traps rain in clots.
the assistant pours a bucket over
spiced skin – there is no
more red in this headless hanging body
.
the goat becomes a cone when
the butcher incises the belly-seam
and scoops out the slick organs like a cesarean
.
they are drenched in rain and sweat and turmeric
while we wait under umbrellas
with wet tongues and wagging feet
.
he is drunk headless; he dances with the carcass
limns the thigh and flank with knife-edge and
pummels the hooves off.
the assistant brings him more raksi
.
the head and the khukri are on a tree stump in front of me
he sits to hack the head; not halfway as I expected
but a blow over each of its eyes:
brain bits explode,
one tooth, three teeth go flying.
something – skull or skin or bloodless brain sticks to my leg.
the rain has stopped to look at this
.
he weighs five kilos for us.
no you don’t get to choose, he says,
you get a bit of everything – that’s the village way.
here take your bag of meat and go.
I have a sixth goat to cull –
you don’t want to stay too long next to a killer like me
.