The Chopping Block

 

(The Time Machine by Robert Margetts)

www.robertmargetts.com

THE CHOPPING BLOCK

 

A blacksmith’s anvil,

An editor’s block,

The blade and the basket

Await the cock.

Steel meets the neck,

The hinge gives way—

Blood arcs bright

In a crimson spray.

To sever the spine,

To spill what must flow,

To purge the sickness

From stone below.

The calloused palm

Of a wanton hand

Stroked frail manhood,

A fragile command.

Slowly inching

Toward that crest,

Pulse upon pulse

In a tightening chest.

Flesh against flesh,

Friction fed,

A swelling crown

Of aching red.

Beneath the rise

Of the mushroomed hill,

Heat climbed higher,

Relentless still.

One final stroke—

A failing spurt.

A breath half-caught,

A fleeting hurt.

Soft talons closed

On withering might,

Clutching the last

Of fading fight.

And so it ended—

Not with a cry,

But in the hush

Where endings lie.