Blood Project Poem by Brian Taylor

I
Resting
my shoe
and my chin
on the gate,
I thought I knew
how animals must suffer.

Jostling
in the concrete slaughterhouse,
their sweat
their fear
soaks me
and the stench of their faeces
chokes me
and stifles my lungs.

II
Thought-rain
doesn’t wet.
Taught-pain
cannot forget;
(sinks in deeper
than the brain.)

lll
Empty handed I come
and lo!
the blood is on my hands.

Why do I seek high and low
for something else to strangle?