Apocalypse — Ngauranga

Cows with shopping bags filled the unit,
bulls roared in the pubs, I saw
sheep meandering in offices, listened
to pigs grunting on Billygoat Hill.
I went to work; outside the killing shed
a new stink climbed up my nostrils.

The chain had started, from each
jigging hook a hanging carcase slid,
dead men and women dripping blood
scrunched up in spreaders, nodding
their inverted heads. Recognising
in their bloody frames the faces
of my family and friends,
I stoned my knife and went to work,
hacking their heads and splitting
breastbones, a nameless sorrow
buried in my being while my body
worked in its habitual rhythm.

I did not wake in terror till
I heard loud laughter from the hill
above.

A W Peterson.