Secrets
by Angela France
[ poetry - july 08 ]
The scrubbed block had scars and nicks
from the graded blades hanging on the rack;
I knew I could see blood lingering
in deep cuts. His slabbed hands
were always wet and red, fingers
plump as the sausages forced
from the maw of his machine.
He smiled at customers as he slapped steak
on white paper, chatted as his cleaver
slammed through flesh and joint.
He knew all the wives by name,
knew who would want the cheap cuts,
the marrow bones for soup. He'd wink
an extra slice of ham into the wrapper
for Mrs Green and tease newlyweds
about what they'd give their man for supper.
I'd keep my eyes down, only offer
words from the shopping list,
scurry away with ideas about his
steel door
and what it hid, sure of his kinship
to the plaster pig in the window
with a striped apron and a perverse smile
as its varnished trotter pointed
to rows of glistening chops.
I coloured him red,
heard draining arteries in his voice,
the thud of cleavers in his laugh.
I watched him checking a delivery, afraid
of what might burst from the straining seams.
He caught me looking
at the pigs hanging in the lorry,
pink feet pointing in a row.
Look like ballet dancers, don't they?
