Cleaver

Sandra Dolores Gómez Amador

I do not think about flesh anymore, but if I did,
I would tell you about its adoration

for cruelty. How my grandfather clenched
firmly on my wrist the first time I held

a cleaver to wound. How we killed a lamb together
and when it bleated loudly, I bit

my tongue till it bled. How he then placed
his hand tenderly against my cheek

before sinking his nails into it. How he repented
instinctively, cried out perdóname, perdóname

corderita. How I was a witness of his violence
but a bearer of it too, and to bear is itself

a way of devotion. How when he died I wailed
at his feet repeating yo también quiero

aprender a ser cruel. How I have always longed
to be the butcher’s favorite animal

to slaughter.

* perdóname, perdóname, / corderita (tr.) forgive me, forgive me, / baby lamb.
* yo también quiero / aprender a ser cruel (tr.) I too want to / learn to be cruel.