The Slow Walk to the Slaughterhouse

Written by Amelia Moore.

Mom, last night was rough--

full of bullet casings and no easy way to say ‘I love you’ without it being some treatise,

On disappointment, and the failings of an inferior generation.

Dawn woke up hungry, 

But how many times can I be rebirthed before this failure

Is just a facet of the self?

I keep trying to swallow the grave dirt, make you say it back,

Reduced to primordial begging, beholden

To the most deranged breed of God.

Mom, I’m the ghost of some long-ago suicide, 

Who still remembers being sixteen and trying to re-pull pride

Out of your mouth, and I know I haven't unfailed yet 

But I was hoping we could see past that--

The trees are thickening, is all. Words spoken to your back

Amidst the crackle of branches, and the smell of dead sheep rotting the air,

Cold sealing us beneath a canopy of sky, 

While your sons and I exchange

uncertain looks.

Mom, I'm the echo of some unforgiven past,

Last time we went to church I watched my regrets

Stay trapped, fluttering in the rafters,

‘forgive me father for I have sinned’ but I’m sorry, I only mouthed the words,

I know you know I didn’t worship properly

But if it helps, my eyes were fixed on you.

Mom, I’m the emptied chamber of your interrupted massacre,

The last vestiges of blood in the sheep’s fur, wondering 

how much farther we have to go

As dusk spits out its broken teeth. The gorey droop of sky on your shoulder,

and that sheep back there. Begging for

an unevil answer, a rational rationale--

And well, here’s to hoping this next death 

will be far kinder than the last.

Is there any chance that

you’ll just swallow my guilt for me?

Let me let go of it, so I can be your daughter again.

I picture a smile over your shoulder. Just a little farther to go, you’ll say

(and yeah, maybe deep down

I know what's going on).

But if you want this for me I’ll cut my wings with your breath,

Cause I’m starting to think there’s only one way

back to your love in the end.