The Butcher's Daughter

No sun for days. Grandmother
bares her teeth and snarls
whenever Yenter strikes the door
begging eggs. What food we have
is salted down and hung
inside the well. Wolves come in
from the forests to prowl our yards.
The men go out with axes.
I've watched my father split
the skin of a newborn calf, cradle
the intestines unbroken, like sausages,
in his hands while scavengers gathered
in the trees. Born breech myself
I can predict my bastard child's
first sin: he turns in me.
Above the stove those fine knives
reflect the fire.
All that rich blood upon the wind.