Easter field blessing: division
we go with father to the fields we hold small crosses
of hazel and paper ribbons and holy water (in plastic
bottles) our dogs run along fat with shiny fur
they scare foxes from between the birches
father pushes the cross into the stony ground bloody flysch he says
and I think that in a few months in the August heat
we’ll be harvesting wheat here (it is here that father will first
tell us about death he’ll put on it the mask of the forest)
down in the village the church bells ring
we return from the last field
each of us tries to hold
father’s attention on herself
in the light of a tall bonfire I consider
the way we divide him between us: uneven
unjust
matters of the forest: diagnosis
at the start I spoke to you
as to animals but when your questions
turned uncomfortable I watched
you more carefully
I thought I’d show the one first
to ask about the matters of the forest
everything with precision
till first blood
face: painting lesson
near the forest died father’s old friend
we used to visit him in winter his hands resembled
the claws of a bird of prey he poured onto clay saucers
honeydew and clapped seeing our faces sticky with sweetness
he whispered because as father claimed in his throat
settled evil so if we were to pray we should pray for his throat
and against what lived there
he gave me my first bees father says while we walk
up the fields to touch his hand one last time
in the cold room I’m peering at the dried face
of the friend of my father I’m thinking of death’s
painterly ambition how it brings forth shadow
how cautiously it selects colour
June: blood
I find my sister in the kitchen her head bent over the sink
from her nose streaks dense blood the red line leads
across the floor to the sofa I push back her forehead
with a kitchen cloth wipe her mouth
father enters the hall with a bleeding hare
takes my sister’s face into his hands I see the blood
of the animal and the blood of my sister mix
inventory: birth and slaughter
whitewashed wall of the cowshed turns into father’s notebook
with a drafting pencil he jots down dates of the insemination
of the cows he counts the animals coming and going
in the evening we take a heifer to a bull
father chooses the one near the forest the Swiss Simmental breed
the bull seems enormous from his nostrils dangles a cast-iron ring
I ask father if he won’t break the cow he’s gentle father assures
the boys who live near the forest take me to the barn to its doors
where they have nailed toads we’re praying
to them they say bowing deep to the amphibians