Rising (Dark) Poem by Thomas Plotz

Steam was rising,
Rising as I cut deep into flesh, on my first pass,
Blood-red, rich in iron, streamed from the wound,
Now my hands stained, with pain, as I wield,
The well-worn buck knife, used in my expert manner,

Yes, steam was rising,
She, the knife, was working as it should,
Any well trained person knows, all tools used to kill,
Are named she, or a she name, out of respect,
This knife was given to me by a woman; "She's" named after that girl,
Has a small chip, at the tip of the sharp blade,
Given to me that way, would have been disrespectful to,
Sharpen it straight,

Yes steam was rising,
This pass, I removed the guts,
I kept the liver and the heart, the heart I ate first,
After I finished dressing the fallen buck, then
Thanking the deer, and the Lord for the clean kill,
Some may think it's a slaughter, assassination on the take down,
I need to eat, or I will die,

I bit into the blood rich heart,
Steam was rising,
Now from the blood, dripping from my lips, licking with my tongue, then
Wiped my face with the back of my hand, in satisfaction,

Steam was rising, and
She, performed well today

T. Plotz
Rising (Dark)
31 March 2016