Thinking about the Post Mortem on My Brother’s Body

Water troughs thoughtfully
provided in the lairage sheds
divided into a half dozen pens,
the signatures of hammered nails
scrawling the concrete floor;
long gates swung out across the yard,
a cordon, a gauntlet of air;
a bay probably 14.5, a piebald
draught smelling of tinkers fires,
a pair of old Connemaras;
ears twitching, nostrils flaring,
prodded, lashed, whipped again;
pushed, pulled into the tightness,
the steel door of the box clasping,
the arm pulled back in archer's pose,
aiming between the eyes, stunning.

A crashing collapse, hoists and
shackles on hooves, knives
whacking off rasps and files,
the bloodbath filling, gurgling,
down along the slaughter line,
the steel frame of the hide puller
straining, chains coiling, recoiling,
green offal chutes slobbering,
splitting saws screeching;
sterilizers, power hoses, water,
chainmail gloves, rubber boots,
the stench clogging and gagging,
knives, long white aprons,
the cavernous boning hall,
overhead tracks, dispatched
into the cold, dark storage.