The Butcher's Daughter

If nothing else, there is the butcher's daughter. She changes into her work clothes in the bushes. In the bushes by the hyacinth ridden drain canal with floating purple flowers. Work clothes are a must in her profession. Or else where else would the blood spill. Blood of the goat that's throttled. By her father. I suppose he is the father, but he doesn't look the other way when she is changing. Behind the bushes. In the early morning sun. Just before they set up shop. Beneath the tarpaulin strung between mildly inclined poles of bamboo. The butcher girl has sharp piercing eyes. As if she can see everything you are trying to hide. Her hair is dirty. About those eyes, I can't be right. It's a deception. Nobody can see what is going on inside us. We camouflage too easy. Our lives come too cheap.

The butcher girl makes a diligent assistant. She packs meat in plump black polythene bags, wards off  stray dogs and returns the exact change, without an expression on her face. Behind their shop an unseen bird hides beneath the bulbous leaves of the exuberant hyacinth. It walks on water. Impossible, but yes it does. As if it was weightless. No agony of past, no fear of future. One weightess bird. At first sight, the bird looks like a myna. But then, the prints on it are not the same. God must have painted that one, when mildly high. Oh sure. There must have been a love poem at the back of his mind. And he must have been living through the shit of heartbreak when he imagined those eyes on the butcher girl. 


hailey said...

Great post! Hi, do you have an email address I can contact you on? Thanks and have a great day!

CRD said...

How on earth do you think these up? That was simply brilliant!!!

Blasphemous Aesthete said...

God is lonely.

Blasphemous Aesthete

wildflower said...

@Hailey, it's supposed to be there in my blogger profile
@CRD, Long time. No see?
@Blasphemous Aesthete, He must be. That we his children are born such with that congenital defect.

There is a loneliness in this world so great, that you can see it in the slow movement of the hands of a clock.

People so tired, mutilated,either by love or no love. Bukowski

Surya Prakash V said...

One time I snuck up through my spine. Inching up chewing through the sinew. Eating through layers of fat that held my spirit tight. Like I was in a straitjacket and the fabric fell in love with my nails making it easy to tear.

Then I soared, or us it sored? Fermented perhaps; in the wingless flight, truth was the lonely path.

Nice. Hope you are well.